Bewildered, Sam gazed at him, and the madman started talking to him in some foreign tongue. Sam shook his head.
“You no roight,” he remarked, “to come bargin’ through they swedes of Mr. Hodge’s.”
And then the aviator behaved in a most peculiar manner. He came up and examined Sam’s face very closely, and gave a sudden tug at his beard and hair, as if to see whether they were real or false.
“What is your name, old man?” he said.
“Sam Gates.”
The aviator muttered some words that sounded something like “mare vudish,” and then turned to his machine. He appeared to be dazed and in a great state of doubt. He fumbled with some cranks, but kept glancing at old Sam. At last he got into the car and strapped himself in. Then he stopped, and sat there deep in thought. At last he suddenly unstrapped himself and sprang out again and, approaching Sam, said very deliberately:
“Old Grandfather, I shall require you to accompany me.”
Sam gasped.
“Eh?” he said. “What be talkin’ about? ’Company? I got these ’ere loines o’ turnips—I be already behoind—”
The disgusting little revolver once more flashed before his eyes.