Professor Leblance sank to a chair stupefied. He stared like a man stunned into vacancy. He was completely overcome.
A strange expression crossed the face of the young aviator. Impulsively his hand went to a certain document that Elmer Brackett had given him two days before. His eye grew more steady, his lips more firm.
“Will you kindly give me a few details of the Dictator flight,” he requested, “while Professor Leblance recovers from his surprise?”
It was a brief story. The red, white and blue gas bag had landed near Plymouth. The daring pilot was discovered clinging to it, drenched to the skin. He had been feted, honored, brought to London. He was even now in the next room, relating his wonderful adventures to the president and directors of the club.
“Come, Professor Leblance,” said Dave, in a clear, steady tone, “I have something to say to this wonderful J. E. Dawson.”
“Professor Leblance and Mr. Dashaway, of the Albatross,” introduced the secretary, a minute later.
Lolling in a luxurious armchair in the midst of some braggadocio recital, with a startled jerk Jerry Dawson came upright as though electrified.
The eye of the young aviator rested upon him with a fixedness that made him squirm.
“Happy to meet you, Professor Leblance,” greeted the club official. “You share a most glorious exploit with our guest.”
“One word first,” interrupted Dave, amazed at his own firmness of voice and nerve. “So there may be no later misunderstanding, does that young man, whom I recognize as a Mr. Dawson, claim to have arrived first in the race across the Atlantic?”