"That's the way to talk. By the way, talking of the inventor of the
Buzzard, I saw a piece in the paper about him to-night."
"What was it?"
"Why it seems that the poor beggar applied for shelter at the Municipal lodging-house in New York and told them a long tale of Barr having robbed him of his invention. They sized him up as being just another of those inventor bugs and so sent him to the booby hatch in Bellevue."
"A good place for him," was the rejoinder, "these inventors are all crazy."
"Well, Luther Barr's found a way to make this particular crank pay," was the reply.
"That's so. Well, good-night. Oh, say what was the name of the man who planned the Buzzard?"
"Oh, Eben something—let's see—Eben—it began with a J. I've got it—Eben Joyce, that's it—Eben Joyce."
"Queer name that—Eben Joyce," was Sanborn's comment. "Well, good-night."
"Good-night. You won't fail us."
"Not I," responded the machinist, as he slipped into the aerodrome and was soon wrapped in slumber as profound as if the thought of committing a treacherous act had never entered his mind.