“Does it amount to anything?” inquired the aviator.
“That’s for you and Mr. Leblance to say.”
“Run across that fine specimen of humanity, young Dawson?” asked Grimshaw, in a kind of a growl.
“He had been sent to New York for some balloon material,” explained Dave, “so I got along finely, for Davidson doesn’t know me by sight. Sure enough, they are building a dirigible balloon,” continued Dave. “They’ve found a backer who has put up several thousand dollars. They talk big of how sure they are of reaching Liverpool in a week’s time,” and Dave smiled.
“What are you smiling at, Dashaway?” inquired Mr. King.
“You would smile if you saw the craft they are building,” declared Dave. “To tell you the truth, I can’t get away from the suspicion that the whole thing is what people call a fake.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, I had no trouble in getting into their workroom. The way they act, the machine they’re getting up—well, I almost made up my mind that Davidson is doing all this to get some of the promoter’s easy money. If the Dictator ever sails a hundred miles, let alone a thousand, it will be doing well.”
“What kind of a craft is this Dictator?” inquired Leblance, with professional interest.
“I’ll show you,” said Dave, feeling in his pocket. “The fact is, I gave those fellows tit for tat.”