“But, sir, it’s all in the game,” argued Billy; “it’s our business, and we can’t quit for every close call.”
“See me to-morrow; besides, Herr Roque wants to have a talk with you. Here he is now.”
The lieutenant presented Billy to a mild-looking man in citizen’s attire, and who peered at the boy through horn-bound spectacles. This noted secret agent was the picture to-day of a well-to-do merchant in the lesser lines of trade. What his appearance would indicate to-morrow is another thing. He was a lightning change artist, according to repute.
“Glad to meet you, young sir,” was his bland address, in perfect English.
“Same to you, sir,” Billy politely replied, all the time wondering what was coming.
“I just came over from the city to take up a little supply contract with the officers here, and I learned of your narrow escape from death. It was wonderful, miraculous. I congratulate you.”
“Thank you kindly, sir.”
“Ah, no need of thanks, young sir. I highly appreciate the favor of meeting you.
“Let us be seated, if you please. I am not so young as I used to be. Good. Now we can chat in comfort. I am very fond of the air sport, I assure you. Isn’t it queer that often what we admire the most we know the least about? Art, for instance—and flying, too, on little boards, without the lifting power of gas. Wonderful!”
“What’s he driving at?” thought Billy. Then aloud: “I expect I had better not take up any more of your time, sir, as you are here on business.”