“Dr. Martin Trigg, and Dr. Nicholas Sims. They are the two old professors from Princeton. Scientists of some sort—big bugs.”
“I helped ’em aboard,” said Red, chuckling. “One of ’em said ‘Thank you, my boy, thank you,’ just as pretty, but the other looked at me till I felt like a bug on a pin.”
“The next four I haven’t seen,” said David.
“Skip ’em,” counseled Red. “Reporters. Wild-eyed, sort of. You can always tell ’em. Always huntin’ a scoop for the next edition, regardless of time or place.”
“These two are men Commander Hammond is trying to interest in dirigibles.”
“Uh huh,” said Red. “Be polite.”
“Emil Hausen—he’s a German. We leave him at Friedrichshafen.”
“I must practice my German on him,” said Red. “I know four fine upstandin’ words: Ach du lieber Augustin. Would you think they’d sound homelike to the poor wanderer, Davie?”
“Try ’em!” laughed Davie; “I’ll pick up the pieces.” He wandered off, stopping to admire the salon. In one corner, at a small but perfectly appointed desk, Mr. Hamilton already sat dictating rapidly to his secretary. The great king of Wall Street was preparing to radio his orders, keeping a tight rein on his active money.
At a window the two old scientists, Doctors Trigg and Sims, quarreled in low, tense tones over something referred to in such lengthily technical terms that David did not know whether they had disagreed about dinosaurs, angleworms, or air currents. As David passed, the smaller of the two men looked up and nodded.