The proprietor of the place quickly appeared from a curtained recess at the rear of the shop, and crooked a finger in beckoning invitation to the visitors to come back and join him.
The hairy assistant went to the street door, and after peering up and down the avenue, nodded clearance to his chief.
The boys perched themselves on a couple of high stools in the work room, while Ricker leaned against a low and broad shelf covered with equipment of the clockmaker’s trade.
Billy was determined to settle matters there and then and get clear of an annoying and dangerous complication.
“This is the last time,” he bluntly stated, “that we will stand for a call here. Just as I told you before, there was a limit to our knowledge of Mr. Roque’s affairs, and as he did not choose to take us all the way, we have no desire to be dragged along by any stranger. Running aeroplanes is our business, and we are not seeking to acquire any other profession. So it’s farewell on the spot.”
Ricker showed a red flush of anger rising to his cheekbones, but he tempered his reply to the boy’s declaration. “Stick to your flying trade, young man, as you will, but on your service the Cause has a claim, and the penalty for ignoring that claim will be exacted to the last farthing, be it blood or bones.”
The implied threat put a tingle in Billy’s spirited makeup, and, jumping from the stool, he impetuously took up the challenge of the silversmith with wordy proclamation:
“When we leave this place, understand me, we don’t return, and, again, not the slightest bit of attention do we pay to any further communication from you. You get me?”
Ricker put another curb on his temper, and his tone was even and subdued, slightly tinged with mockery as he replied to Billy’s forceful speech:
“You bluff beautifully, my young friend, but for one who was hand and glove with the great Herr Georges you wear your chains too lightly.”