“I thought,” he remarked, “that it’s about time we coupled a little business with this random knocking around. There’s a man in the Flatiron Building who is interested in aviation—I heard of him through Cameron, up at Fort Totten—and I believe we’ll call and have a little talk. It might lead to something, you know.”
“Aviation!” muttered the cowboy. “That’s a brand-new one. Tell me what it’s about, pard.”
“Aviation,” and Matt coughed impressively, “is the science of flight on a heavier-than-air machine. When we used that Traquair aëroplane, Joe, we were aviators.”
“Much obliged, professor,” grinned the cowboy. “When we scooted through the air we were aviating, eh? Well, between you and me and the brindle maverick, I’d rather aviate than do anything else. All we lack, now, is a bird’s-eye view of the met-ro-po-lus. Let’s get a flying machine from this man in the Flatiron Building, and ‘do’ the town from overhead. We can roost on top of the Statue of Liberty, see how Grant’s Tomb looks from the clouds, scrape the top of the Singer Building, give the Metropolitan——”
“That’s a dream,” laughed Matt. “It will be a long time before there’s much flying done over the city of New York. I’m going to see if we have any mail. After that, we’ll get a car and start for downtown.”
McGlory sat back in his chair and waited while his chum disappeared in the crowd. When Matt got back, he showed his comrade a letter.
“Who’s it from?” inquired McGlory.
“Not being a mind reader, Joe,” Matt replied, “I’ll have to pass,” and he handed the letter to the cowboy.
“For me?” cried McGlory.