“Never mind, my boy,” said his father, putting his arm affectionately over the little fellow’s shoulder. “Maybe it will go next time.”
“Twenty-three’s a hoodoo number, anyway,” added Harry. “Why do you send it over the water?”
“Because if it flies across the lake, I’ll win the cup. But it won’t—it never does.”
“Well, Pat will row out and get it for you every single time,” said his father, soothingly.
“It’ll get spoiled—it’s spoiled now—the ones you buy go.” He almost broke out crying, and Mr. Danforth looked as if the little fellow’s disappointment actually hurt him.
“I was all this week and two days of last week making it—and it’s spoiled.” He set his lips tight in a manly effort to control his distress.
Harry stepped forward, placing his arm over the boy’s shoulder as his father had done. “You remember me?” he said in his quiet way. “Well, now, you listen a minute. Never mind if your machine is spoiled, you’ve still got the idea and it’s a mighty good one, too. You can work it up again and make it still better.” He smiled encouragingly and patted the little fellow’s shoulder. The father was delighted.
“Hear that, Pen? This is the boy who got you out of the water yesterday—come to see how you are—maybe he can give you some ideas. Take him up to the aviation tower and show him things—show him the cup.” He winked at Harry. “I want you boys to stay here till to-morrow,” he called after them as Penfield led the way upstairs, “as a favor to me.”
“I’m afraid we’ll never find our friends unless we get about it,” Harry protested.
“Well, one day won’t make any difference. I want a chance to talk to you. Come up to the house when you’ve seen his den.”