“That’s what,” assented Hank Higgins, as a tongue of flame shot upward above the black huddle of shadows that marked the town.
“I only hope it destroys their aeroplane,” viciously remarked Fred Reade, “we’ve got to win this race.”
“I suppose you’ve been betting on it,” sneered old Barr.
“And if I have it’s none of your business, is it?” demanded Reade fiercely.
“Oh, no; not at all. Don’t be so savage, my dear young man, or I shall have to ask Hank here to subdue you,” smirked old Barr.
“He’d better not, or I’d soon fix him with this.”
Reade drew out a huge revolver and brandished it, at which the desperado grinned despisingly.
“Why, you’d be scared to handle it, even if you knew how. You let shooting irons alone till you git through with your nursing bottle,” he sneered.
“I’ve a good mind to show you,” shouted Reade angrily.
Old Barr quieted him with a reassuring tap on the shoulder.