“So I was till a short time ago,” flashed back Billy, “when the Planet seems to have found out something about a young man named Reade.”
“What do you mean?” asked Reade in a voice he tried to render blustering, but which shook in spite of himself.
“I’m not going into details; you know well enough,” said Billy in a quiet, meaning tone, looking Reade straight in the eye.
The other pretended to get very busy with his writing, but as Billy was leaving the office, he looked up and exclaimed:
“You and your friends think you are mighty smart, but we’ll trim you yet, you see if we don’t.”
“Well, you’ll have to wake up, then,” laughed Billy, “you didn’t do much trimming to-day.”
Franke Reade cast a furious glance after the young reporter as he left the telegraph office.
“I’ll make you pay for that when we get out in the wild country,” he said furiously.
At the hotel Billy found the boys in conversation with McArthur. He had made arrangements to have his ship reinflated that night, he told them, and in future meant to carry with him several cylinders of hydrogen gas. He had telegraphed ahead to Nashville and several other towns on the route to San Francisco to have supplies ready for him, and anticipated no further trouble on that score. He had also been lucky enough to get a propeller from a man who had been making dirigible ascensions at a Pittsburg park, but who had been injured a few days before in an accident.
The boys and their party turned in early and slept like tops. They were up betimes, and after a hasty breakfast motored out to the park. They found the aeroplane in perfect trim, and after replenishing the gasolene and water tanks and thoroughly oiling every part of the engine, they were once more ready to start. A big crowd had gathered, early as was the hour, and gave them a mighty cheer as they swept into the air. The next minute the auto was off, and it was a light-hearted party that occupied its tonneau.