“Stick to me engines,” said Red, “forever and ever. And pray that Old Foolish here will now stop tantalizin’ me about royalties.”
As they walked back through the salon, they found the radio man talking to the youngest reporter, who stepped up.
“What’s this, Mr. Ryan? I guess you have a story for me, haven’t you?”
“Not any,” said Ryan.
“Oh, sure you have—that message.”
Red laughed. “Well, it’s luck I came along, if it’s this you mean.” He pulled the paper from his pocket. “From my brother,” he explained. “He uses a code. Decoded, it means that he wants me to go with him in New York to buy some B. V. D’s, and let’s see—Oh, some socks! And he wants ’em to look like a million dollars. It is a good code. You’d never guess it, would you?”
Unbelief was stamped on the two faces.
“Where is your home, Mr. Ryan?” asked the reporter.
Red grinned at the trap. “Ayre,” he said.
“But when you are not in the air,” persisted the reporter. Red sauntered toward the passage. “I’m never anywhere else,” he said over his shoulder.