"Well, what do you think of it, Captain?" says the young sport after a while.
The Captain, he shakes his head. "I can't tell positively," says he; "but these planes seem to me to be set entirely wrong. I never saw deflectors worked on that principle before, either. The theory may be good; but in a practical test——"
"They say he's made flight, though," breaks in the young sport. "The night watchman saw him. Hey! You're the chap that built this aëroplane, aren't you?"
"Yes, sir," says Tuttle.
"And didn't you make a flight?" he wants to know.
"A short one," says Tuttle.
"That's enough for me," says the sport. "Say, you know who I am, don't you?"
"Oh, yes," says Tuttle. "At least, I ought to. You're Bradish Jones, Jr., one of the owner's sons."
"That's right," says young Mr. Jones. "And I know you. You're the son of old Tuttle, who used to be foreman of the machine shop when I was doing my apprentice work. Thought this little trick of yours was a secret, didn't you? But I heard about it. Lucky for you I did, too. I'm in the market. I don't care a hoot what the Captain says, either. I want a flyer, and I'm ready to take a chance on yours. What do you want for it?"
"Why," says Tuttle, "I don't believe I want to sell."