“What time did Mr. Pythias Peregrine say he’d be here?” inquired Tom, who, like Jack, was attired in a business-like costume of khaki, topped off with an automobile cap.
Jack, who had been busy perusing the telegraphic message inscribed on the bit of yellow paper, read it aloud.
“‘Jack Chadwick, High Towers, Nestorville, Mass.:
“‘Can I see you about noon on Thursday next? Wish to talk over a new invention with you and your father. Wire if you can see me at that time and I will call on you.
“‘Pythias Peregrine.
“‘Pokeville, Mass.’”
“Wonder what he can want?” mused Professor Chadwick’s son, in a speculative tone. “Pythias Peregrine is one of the best-known inventors in the country. I guess we all ought to feel honored by his wanting to consult with us, Tom.”
“You bet we ought. Wonder what sort of a man he is. I suppose he’ll be inclined to look down upon us as a couple of kids when he does see us. But—hello, Jack!” he broke off suddenly—“what’s that off there in the sky—over there to the northwest?”
“That speck yonder? It looks like—yes, by ginger, it is—it’s an aëroplane of some sort!”
“That’s what.”