“Why—er—” Al stammered, not so much ill at ease as trying to pretend he felt shy in the presence of a great man, “I’m one of the fellows who have a sort of club, to study airplanes, and all that—and I—we—heard about you being a clever pilot, and I thought I’d ride out and ask if you’d be generous enough to write a little something about aviation in our club autograph album.” He produced the small book he had brought in his coat pocket.
“Hm-m!” The man scowled. “Le’me see that book!”
He took the small volume and Al’s heart sank. Instead of writing sensibly and generously on blank page invitingly offered, he flipped the pages, and Al knew that the affair was a failure. There was nothing about aviation in the few autographed verses and sayings already collected.
“That’s no aviation album!” The man thrust it away angrily and jumped up. “What’s your scheme, young fellow?”
“Scheme?” Al tried to look innocent. “I told you—we want to get you to start the real autographs from aviators!”
The subterfuge did not satisfy the man. He frowned, stared at Al as though trying to get through his guard, to discover any hidden motive. Al, inexperienced, fidgeted, unable to conceal his uneasiness.
However, he received a surprise.
“Sure!” The man snatched up the book. “Come to think of it, why not? Fact is, kid, I’ll start you off with two autographs. Wait!”
He hurried out of the office. Al did not dare “peek” to see where he went or what he did. For all Al knew, the man might be just beyond the side door, watching. He sat very still, trying to be as self-possessed as he could.
Presently the man returned, with the book held open.