Wondering who the telegram could be from, Matt opened it, read it over to himself, laughed, and then read it aloud.
"'Will guarantee you one thousand dollars a week to come here and give exhibitions with your air ship. Deflate it and forward by express, and come by train. Wire me if you accept.'"
"Well, what do you think of that!" exclaimed the chief.
"Vone t'ousant tollars a veek!" jubilated Carl. "Py shinks, ve vill haf Morgan und Rockyfeller backed off der map! Vone t'ousant a veek! Binch me, somepody."
"Where's it from, matey?" asked Ferral, with suppressed excitement.
"From Atlantic City, New Jersey," answered Matt.
"Big summer resort," observed the chief. "The people who go there can afford to have what they want, and pay well for it. What name's signed to the message, Matt?"
"Kitson Steel Pier Company."
"Well, it must be all right," said the chief. "Anyhow, the Kitson Steel Pier Company show a whole lot of sense in advising you to deflate the gas bag and ship the air ship by express. That's a whole lot better than trying to fly there, and butting into such storms as we had last night. What message are you going to send to Atlantic City, Matt?"
"'Terms accepted; start at once.'"