"I'm willing," was the cool response. "It can't be that you have very much confidence in your aëroplane, Mr. Murgatroyd."
"Solid ground is good enough for me. If man was intended to fly he would have been born with wings. That's where I stand in this aëronautical game. Besides, Traquair invented the machine—I didn't; and the fact that Traquair was killed by his own invention doesn't give me superlative confidence in it."
The youth wondered why Murgatroyd was taking such an interest in a machine that did not command his confidence. The next moment the broker explained this point.
"Traquair owed me money, and the machine was the only thing belonging to him that I could get hold of. If the test at Fort Totten is satisfactory, the war department will buy the aëroplane at a good figure. This is the only way I can get back the loan, you see?"
"What are you willing to pay for the work you want done?"
The youth's tone was chilling and business-like. He was anything but favorably impressed with Murgatroyd.
"I won't pay a red cent," declared the broker. "I'll furnish the aëroplane, and you can use it for practice. If you please the war department, and they pay fifteen thousand for the machine, we'll split the amount even. That's fair enough. I won't be throwing good money after bad, and success or failure is put up to you."
"Is the machine you have the one that killed Traquair?"
Murgatroyd gave a choppy laugh.
"I should say not! There was nothing but kindling wood left of that machine. Traquair was intending to fly for the government, and he had a machine constructed especially for the purpose. It's in storage at Fort Totten now. The machine he was using here was the first one he built. By the way, young man, what's your name?"