The passengers seemed rather glad to leave the trans-Siberian part of the flight behind them, although it had been a wonderful experience.
When Dulcie succeeded in cornering her father, she declared that Davie was growing very thin. She rebuked her parent for the amount of responsibility he had placed on David’s shoulders. Finally he replied:
“Look here, little gadfly, if you will stop buzzing for a while, I will explain my methods. This young David Ellison is rather better than the average, (‘Much,’ said Dulcie.) and he has a good mind; an excellent mind. (‘A perfectly wonderful mind,’ muttered Dulcie.) He’s a splendid type of the young American, (‘Um,’ said Dulcie.) and I want to see if he has the stuff in him that I think he has. If it’s there, Dulcie, I mean to give him a helping hand.”
“Atta boy, daddy!” cried Dulcie. “He has got brains. Has he said anything to you about the invention he is working on?”
“Not a word; what is it?”
“He doesn’t want anyone to know about it, and I’m not to breathe a word even to you, but it is something about something to fasten on the engines that will make them do something or other a great deal better than they are doing it now, and all that. It is marvelously important, and I’m not to mention it to a soul.”
“I wouldn’t. Some unscrupulous person, hearing you talk about it, might jot the whole thing down and get a patent on it. In the meantime, to go back, I won’t be able to find out what stuff he’s made of unless I work him like the devil. So keep your finger out of this pie, Miss Hammond. The young man is not your type, anyhow.”
“What is my type, then?” asked Dulcie, curiously.
“Well, there’s Cram.”
“Daddy,” cried Dulcie, stamping, “I can’t bear the sight of him!”