s."

And it was just while he was gettin' ready to start the wheels that
these two strangers butts in on us. One is a husky, red faced, swell
dressed young sport, and the other is a tall, swivel eyed, middle aged
gent dressed in khaki. They walks around the machine without payin' any
attention to me or Tuttle.

"Well, what do you think of it, Captain?" says the young sport after a
while.

The Captain, he shakes his head. "I can't tell positively," says he;
"but these planes seem to me to be set entirely wrong. I never saw
deflectors worked on that principle before, either. The theory may be
good; but in a practical test----"

"They say he's made flight, though," breaks in the young sport. "The
night watchman saw him. Hey! You're the chap that built this aeroplane,
aren't you?"

"Yes, sir," says Tuttle.

"And didn't you make a flight?" he wants to know.

"A short one," says Tuttle.

"That's enough for me," says the sport. "Say, you know who I am, don't
you?"

"Oh, yes," says Tuttle. "At least, I ought to. You're Bradish Jones,
Jr., one of the owner's sons."

"That's right," says young Mr. Jones. "And I know you. You're the son of
old Tuttle, who used to be foreman of the machine shop when I was doing
my apprentice work. Thought this little trick of yours was a secret,
didn't you? But I heard about it. Lucky for you I did, too. I'm in the
market. I don't care a hoot what the Captain says, either. I want a
flyer, and I'm ready to take a chance on yours. What do you want for
it?"

"Why," says Tuttle, "I don't believe I want to sell."

"What's that?" snaps Bradish. "Come, now! Don't try to bluff me! I'll
admit I'm in a hurry. These Curtiss people have been holding me off for
a month, and I want to begin flying right away. So name your price. How
much?"

But Tuttle, he only shakes his head.

"Oh, yes, you will," says Bradish. "Why, you've hardly a dollar to your
name. You can't afford to own a flyer, even if you did build it. You
know you can't. Now show me what it cost you, and I'll give you a
thousand for your work and a hundred a week until I learn to manage the
thing. Is it a go?"

"No!" says Tuttle, sharp and quick, them big eyes of his fairly blazin'.
"This is my machine, and I'm going to fly it. I don't care how much
money you've got. You've taken a sudden whim that you'd like to fly.
It's been the one dream of my life. You've had your yachts and your
racing cars. I've never had anything but hard