Matt lingered in the office for a few minutes longer, then went away. The spell cast over him by the clerk’s words went with him. He had often thought and dreamed along the lines of the subject the draughtsman had mentioned.
The drawback, in the matter of dirigible balloons, lay in the fact that the huge bag, necessary to keep them aloft, made them the sport of every wind that blew. If the volume of gas could be reduced, then, naturally, the smaller the gas bag, the more practicable the dirigible would become. With the volume of gas reduced fifty times, a field opened for power-driven balloons which fairly took Matt’s breath away. And this lifting power of Lafitte’s was under control! This seemed to offer realization of another of Matt’s dreams—of an automobile flying machine, a surface and air craft which could fly along the roads as well as leap aloft and sail through the atmosphere above him.
Carried away by his thoughts, Matt suddenly came back to his sober senses and found himself staring blankly into a window filled with pipes and tobacco at the V-shaped point of the Flatiron Building. He laughed under his breath as he dismissed his wild visions.
“I won’t take any stock in this new gas,” he muttered, “until I can see it demonstrated. Just now I’m more interested in Joe and his good luck than in anything else.”
He looked at his watch. It was only half-past nine, and it would be half an hour, at least, before he could expect his chum. Matt had suddenly remembered, too, that it would probably be ten o’clock before Joe could finish his business at the bank, and that would delay his arrival at the Flatiron Building until after the appointed time.
Crossing over into Madison Square, Matt idled away his time, roaming around and building air castles for McGlory. The cowboy was a fine fellow, a lad of sterling worth, and fortune could not have visited her favors upon one more deserving.
By ten o’clock Matt was back at the Flatiron Building. As he came around on the Fifth Avenue side, a taxicab drew up at the curb, the door opened, and a lad sprang out. The youth was well dressed and carried a small tin box.
Matt supposed the lad was some one who had business inside the building, and merely gave him a casual glance as he strolled on. Matt had not gone far, however, before he felt a hand on his shoulder. He whirled around, thinking it was McGlory, and was a little surprised to observe the youth who had got out of the taxicab.
“Are you Motor Matt?” came a low voice.
“That’s my name,” answered Matt.