Matt awoke, on that memorable Tuesday, to find that fortune was favoring him with a clear sky and not enough wind to ripple the flag over the tent.
McGlory greeted him in a strangely subdued manner. The cowboy had a lot on his mind, and Matt rallied him about his odd reserve.
"Where's Ping?" asked Matt, noting that the little Chinaman was not hovering around his vicinity as usual.
"Give it up, pard," said McGlory. "Suppose he's off asking his joss to give you luck."
People were already gathering on the bluffs, and rounding up in wagons and automobiles in the near vicinity of Camp Traquair.
While Matt was looking over the aëroplane, Cameron brought several dignified, gold-laced officers, who had come from distant points to witness the trials. The lieutenant presented them, and the boyish, unaffected manner of the young motorist had a good effect on the representatives of the war department.
"You understand, do you, Motor Matt," said one of these gentlemen, "that you are to stay aloft two hours, with one passenger, and travel at the rate of thirty miles an hour?"
"Yes, sir," answered Matt. "I can stay aloft three hours just as well as two, and I think you will see the aëroplane do fifty miles instead of thirty."
The officers smiled at his enthusiasm. But they liked it, for it proved that his heart was in his work.
"Don't push the machine too hard," counseled one of the officers.