“Oh, you’ll find it digestible all right,” chuckled Jack, “come on. Climb in, Mister——”
“Hank Appleyard is my name, mister.”
“Very well, then, Mr. Appleyard. Put your foot on that step. That’s it. Now then. Are you all right?”
“By bean poles! This is as comfortable as my parlor cheer ter hum,” remarked Mr. Appleyard, with a tug at his gray goatee, as he sank into the softly cushioned tonneau.
He lay back luxuriantly, and drew out a small and very dirty corncob pipe. Before the boys could observe what he was doing he struck a match. At the sound of the lucifer Jack, who was preparing to “up anchor,” turned like a flash. In a jiffy he had grasped the astonished farmer’s wrist and sent both pipe and match flying into the road.
“Dum gast it all! What did yer do thet fer?” expostulated the indignant agriculturist.
“Because that bag above us holds fifty thousand cubic feet of inflammable gas, and we don’t want to go up before we get ready,” snapped out Jack.
The farmer turned pale.
“By gum, an’ I wuz goin’ ter take a smoke! Say, young fellers, I guess I’ll—”
He was preparing to clamber out, but Jack shoved him back in his seat.