A murmur of approval arose, enthusiastic on the part of some and less vigorous in others. Sammy Addington was loudest in commendation. At the same time he continually felt of another round, hard object in his trousers pocket—a smooth stone tied in a corner of his handkerchief. But he did not exhibit this. Plainly, any one—Nick Apthorp or Carrots Compton—who encountered Sammy on the theory that he was a “mama’s boy” might have a sudden awakening.
“Then it’s war to the knife?” laughed Connie.
“As far as I’m concerned,” Art answered.
“Me too,” sounded from half a dozen others and so it was agreed.
During the day there were attempts to give serious attention to “tuning up” the miniature models. Sammy Addington, who usually carried two machines wherever he went, and whose three-foot Dart (Bleriot model) had a good chance in that class of machines, was apparently wholly prepared for the meet. Noticing his idleness Colly Craighead asked him:
“What you going in for, Sammy?”
“Nick Apthorp,” was the instant answer. Then recalling his wits, he added, “I mean everything, from the three-footers down.”
That evening when the club was holding another meeting Sandy Sheldon falteringly handed President Trevor this note:
“Members Young Aveaturs Club, dear sirs.