"Don't you think the Traquair machine will ever be used for commercial purposes? Won't there be fleets of them carrying passengers and merchandise between San Francisco and New York and making the trip at the rate of sixty or one hundred miles an hour?"
"That's a dream," averred Matt; "still," he added, "dreams sometimes come true. My old dirigible balloon, the Hawk, was a wonder. She could be sailed in a pretty stiff wind, and a fellow didn't have to use his head and hands every blessed second to keep a sudden gust of air from turning his machine upside down. I traveled thousand of miles in the Hawk, but there was always a certain amount of worry on account of the gas. If anything happened to the silk envelope, no amount of work with your head and hands could keep you from a tumble."
"Well, anyway, you're in love with air ships."
"I'm in love with this," and Matt's gray eyes brightened as he touched the motor which he was at that moment installing in the new aëroplane, "and I'm in love with every novel use to which a motor can be put. Explosive engines will furnish the power for the future, and every new way they're used helps that coming time along. But I'm giving a lecture," he smiled, going back to his work, "and I couldn't tell you exactly how I feel on this gas-engine subject if I talked a thousand years. The motors have got a strangle hold on me—they're keeping me out of college, keeping me from settling down, and filling my life with all sorts of adventures. But I can't help it. I'm under the spell of the gas engine, and that's all there is to it."
It was during this talk of Matt's with Cameron, along toward the last days of the busy two weeks, that Ping came into Camp Traquair with a dagger.
"You savvy knife, Motol Matt?" asked Ping, offering the dagger for inspection.
Matt dropped his wrench and took the weapon from the Chinaman.
It was not more than seven inches in length from the end of the handle to the tip of the blade. The blade was badly rusted, and the handle was incrusted with earth.
"Where did you get this, Ping?" inquired Matt, beginning to clean the dagger with the edge of a file.
"My makee find in woods. You savvy place Siwash cally Ping one piecee night he fool with Flying Joss?"