"Good people," he shouted, "every act down on my bills is faithfully given exactly as represented. I tolerate no misstatements in any of my paper. The gallant young motorist, who has exhibited his aëroplane to you this afternoon in an act more thrilling than even the most imaginative showman could advertise, is but one of many artists of world-wide reputation whom I have secured, at fabulous expense, to amuse you behind yonder tented walls. This is the only show now on the road to give, absolutely free, such a grand outdoor flying machine exhibition. Other acts, equally thrilling and instructive, will soon be performed in the two large rings and on the elevated stage under the main canvas. The doors are now open."
With that Boss Burton, having secured probably the greatest advertisement his show had ever received, rode off in the direction of the tents.
While the crowd followed, and Matt and McGlory found themselves, for the first time, able to have a little heart-to-heart talk, they drew off to one side and began making the most of their opportunity.
"Say, pard," said the cowboy glumly, "I'm about ready to quit this aëroplane business."
"Why?" asked Matt.
"There's not money enough in the country to pay me for going through what I did when I saw you swinging aloft with the cobra."
"You saw it?" queried Matt.
"That's what I did, and I yelled and tried to let you know about it, but the crowd was making so much noise you couldn't hear."
Dusk was beginning to fall, and the gasoline torches about the show grounds leaped out like dazzling fireflies. McGlory stared at them thoughtfully for a space, then passed a handkerchief across his damp forehead.
"It don't pay," he muttered. "You take all the risk, Matt, and Ping and I just slop around and kick you off when you make your jump skyward. I'd rather, enough sight, have been up in the machine with you than standing down here on the ground, watching and worrying."