“Lay—deeze—an’—gemp—mum!” Al nudged Curt and whispered that the man was Jenks. “For this opening night the manage—munt has went to the special expense—youse mus’ excuse my poor way of speakin’. ‘I’m only a simple flyer, an’ my eddication don’t go no higher’——”
Al exclaimed, and Curt scowled at the aspersion thus put on the intelligence of the most manly, most steady, best educated general class of men in industry—pilots!—but they listened, nevertheless.
“The manage—munt has put on a extra fine show for tonight. In fact, folks,” his manner became more natural, “we’ve engaged a stunt flyer to come over here tonight, to fly around up in the dark blue, and to do stunts, with rockets and colored lights so you can see what he does. I understand the whole crate is to be lit up some way. So, if you’ll all step outside, while we put tables in here for refreshments, you will have the free entertainment as soon as we can get his signal and let him know to go ahead.”
As Curt and Al were already outside, they craned their necks.
While the laughing couples gathered, a small, red flare was visible. The men who seemed to be awaiting this signal, lighted flares. But to their amazement the ship did no stunts! It went away!
“Funny!” muttered the excited, disgruntled manager, Jenks, close by Al and Curt.
As the flares brightened it seemed as though there were two airplanes dimly reflecting the light.
“But they aren’t doing any stunts!” complained a girl to her partner. “Wait!” he counseled. Waiting, however, did no good.
The dancers, murmuring, and the manager, trying to apologize, saying it must not be the right crate, went back to dance, shoving the refreshment tables roughly aside.
Al and Curt, waiting, watching, wondering, saw the men stick the stubs of their flares into the ground and walk off.