“Some cloud-dodger’s mascot, I expect. Thirteen’s probably his lucky number.”
Bill handed back the coin. “Stick it in your pocket. If we see it advertised, you can easily return it. In the meantime, the mascot may help you to keep the luck you were crowing about just now.”
“And why shouldn’t I crow? Instead of having to work my way through my last year at Carlisle, your father puts me in charge of the foundation he has inaugurated to help the Seminole Nation. Now, Deborah and I can get married in the fall. Why shouldn’t I take the count on my worries? And you’ve got no kick coming. You’re sitting pretty yourself.”
“I sure am,” admitted Bill. “Our Navy’s a swell outfit but I never expected to stay in after my two years’ sea duty when I’d finished up at the Academy. Now that the President himself has let me resign and put me on Secret Service work—well, there’s only one thing I don’t like about it.”
“What’s that?”
“Oh, people—my friends, I mean, think I’m loafing. They don’t understand why I should suddenly leave the Navy. And of course I can’t tell them. This other job must be kept a secret. The President said so.”
“I don’t believe anybody thinks you’re a quitter or a loafer,” argued the chief, “—not after the three big stunts you’ve pulled off this summer, and all the newspaper publicity you’ve had out of them. You’re talking through your sombrero, old son. Bill Bolton is front page news from Maine to California. If you keep hitting any more bullseyes, they’ll slap your phiz on a postage stamp!”
“Oh, yeah? Speak for yourself, John—or words to that effect. Looks like a dead heat to me. How about it?”
Osceola abruptly changed the subject. “If this silver dollar was lost by an aviator,” he observed, fingering the coin, “he never dropped it out of an airplane, I know.”
“And so what?” Bill was mildly interested.