"No, I can't," Matt answered. "The sale was virtually made up in North Dakota weeks ago. Besides, I'm not the only one interested in the deal."
"Who else besides McGlory?"
"Why, Mrs. Traquair, the widow of Harry Traquair, who invented the extension wings and a few other things that have made the aëroplane a success. Half of the fifteen thousand the government pays for the machine goes to Mrs. Traquair."
"Oh, blazes!" growled Burton. "Don't tell the woman anything about it. Send word back to the war department you don't want to sell; then I'll make a new contract with you for a thousand a week. In seven or eight weeks you boys will receive all your share of what the government pays for the Comet."
Matt listened to the showman gravely.
"You don't mean what you say, Burton," said he. "If you think for a minute that I'd play crooked with Mrs. Traquair, or with the government, then you've got pretty far off your track. It's in our contract that, if the government wants the machine, the contract terminates. Here's where the motor boys' engagement with the Big Consolidated comes to a close."
"You'll make a couple of flights to-day, won't you?" asked Burton, swallowing his disappointment.
"Yes, I'll do that much for you," Matt answered, "and then, bright and early to-morrow morning, we begin crating the machine for shipment."
"Blamed if I don't sort of hate to see the machine go," murmured McGlory. "Many a hair-raising old trip you've had in the Comet, pard, with me below lookin' up at you and almost kicking the bucket with heart failure! Mainy a thriller the machine has given us, and—well, I reckon it's done some good, too."
"That's the best part of it, Joe," said the king of the motor boys.