"It was a dirigible balloon," explained Matt. "Correctly speaking, a flying machine is not a motor suspended from a gas bag."
"Quite right. I got these clippings from a clipping bureau in the East, and ever since I found this aëroplane on my hands I've been trying to locate you. Finally I had to give up, and then it was that I put that 'ad' in the paper. And now, here you come answering the 'ad'! Looks like fate had something to do with this, eh?"
"Just a coincidence," answered Matt, "and not such a remarkable coincidence, either. If you knew me better, Mr. Murgatroyd, you'd understand how anxious I am to become familiar with every sort of machine propelled by a gasoline motor. It's the coming power"—Matt's gray eyes brightened enthusiastically—"and as motors are improved, and their weight reduced in direct ratio with the increase in the horse power, the explosive engine will be used in ways as yet——"
"That's all right," cut in Murgatroyd, who was coldly commercial and as far removed from anything like enthusiasm as night is from day. "A gasoline engine is a noisy, dirty machine and smells to high heaven. But that's neither here nor there. Will you take hold of this aëroplane matter, learn how to run the Traquair invention, and then test it out at Fort Totten, two weeks from to-day?"
"I'll think it over," said Motor Matt.
He would not have taken a minute to consider the matter if he had been more favorably impressed with Murgatroyd.
"I can't wait very long for you to make up your mind," went on the broker, visibly disappointed. "There's only two weeks between now and the Fort Totten trials."
"I'll give you an answer by to-morrow morning," and Matt turned toward the door.
"Fame and fortune are in your grasp," urged Murgatroyd. "Don't let 'em slide through your fingers."