Norton had not served twelve years as a metropolitan newspaper man for nothing. He approached the mechanics who were puttering about the machine.
"How about twenty apiece?" he began.
"For what?" the men asked.
"For sending that paddle around a few times."
"Get into that seat, but don't touch any of those levers," one of them warned. "Twenty is twenty, Jack, and the boss is a sorehead to-day anyhow. Give her a shove for the fun of it."
It was a dumfounded aviator who saw his hydroplane skim the water and a moment later sail into the air. These swift moving days a reporter of the first caliber is supposed to be able to run railroad engines, submarines, flying machines, conduct a war, able to shoot, walk, run, swim, fight, think, go without food like a python, and live without water like a camel. Norton had flown many times in the last four years. At the moment he called out to Florence to jump he dropped to the water with all the skill of an old-timer and took her aboard. And he could not use a line of this exploit for his paper!
Jones heard the bell. It was the agent from the Black Hundred. He smiled jauntily.
"Well, old fox, we've cornered you at last, haven't we? I want that money, or Hargreave's daughter takes another sea voyage, and this time she will not jump overboard. A million; and no more nonsense."
"Give me fifteen minutes to decide," begged Jones, hoping against hope.
"Fifteen seconds!"