Jimmy stepped forward promptly.
“This is Jimmy Devlin—Mr. Weber.”
“Ed Weber.” The old man offered his hand shyly. “I am pleased to meet you.”
“Take good care of Mr. Weber, Jimmy.” The field superintendent winked broadly and sauntered back to his office.
“Where was it you wanted to go, Mr. Weber?” Jimmy asked. “Did you just want to take a little ride around the field or did you want to go somewhere particularly?”
“I want to go to Keno, Nevada,” the old man confided.
“You mean Reno, don’t you?” Jimmy asked.
“No, I mean Keno,” the old man said. “But I don’t wonder you never heerd of it. ’Tain’t nothin’ more than a water hole to begin with, and it’s way out on the edge of the mountains more’n a hundred miles south and east of Reno.”
“Is there a landing field there?”
Jimmy realized that his question was foolish, and, furthermore, that the old man did not know what he meant.