“You know,” explained Paul, “that a sled gets an awful impetus on a long glide down a hill. Now, if only one could fix wings or planes to it firmly enough, and equip it with a balancing tail, I don’t see why you couldn’t make a skimmer.”
“Well, you might do it if you didn’t break your neck first,” chuckled Tubby. “Guess I’ll stick to the earth for a while.”
“You’re too fat to do anything else,” chortled Rob. “But seriously, Paul, the idea sounds as if it might be worked out. Maybe the aeroplane will give you some ideas.”
“I hope so,” said Paul. “I’d like to try it as soon as we get any sleighing.”
“Boo-hoo! Boo-hoo!” burst out Tubby, rocking back and forth. “And he’s so young to die!”
When the laugh, in which Paul could not help joining, had subsided, Rob spoke up.
“Seen any more of Freeman Hunt’s father?” he asked.
“Not a sign of him,” rejoined Paul. “I guess he’s given up the idea of getting an interest in my machine. What worries me a whole lot, though, is that I’ve heard nothing more from Washington.”
“Cheer up!” comforted Rob. “I’ve heard my dad say that it takes a year to do in Washington what could be done anywhere else in a month.”
“That’s why it takes the Washingtons so long to get within peeking view of the pennant,” chuckled Tubby, who was a close student of baseball scores.