AN EXTRAORDINARY INVENTION
(Patent not applied for)
They cut up through the woods where Gordon had picked his way to the
Albany camp, for he wanted to show Harry the chasm and the path he had
taken.
“Now, Kid,” said Harry, “you will be kind enough to keep your beautiful
brown eyes straight ahead, or by the great eternal sphinx I’ll put a
pair of blinders on you. No more pink arrows! Just look ahead and listen
to me. We’ve got three things to do, and one of them is right in your
line. First, we’ve got to strike Crown Point and find the elderly lady
who lost this bag.”
“How do you know she’s elderly, Harry?”
“On account of the smelling salts. Then we’ve got to find the troop, and
if all goes well I’m going to give Mr. E. C. Wade the surprise of his
life. How would you like to be Ethan Allen?”
“What!” said Gordon, the idea suddenly dawning on him.
“Well, now,” Harry continued, “Ethan Allen was like you; he was the kind
of a fellow who could find a way.”
“That’s like you, Harry.”
“Well, but he liked to talk and make fine speeches, too, so I think it’s
up to you. Anyway, I’m going to put the idea up to Red Deer, if we can
root him out, and see if we can’t plan an assault. We’ll reconnoiter the
locality, send a couple of scouts in, then go over into Vermont,
transport our men in dories right under Mr. Wade’s nose, gag his
sentries (he’ll have some out, you can wager), and enter the fort, call
upstairs and give him Allen’s speech about Jehovah and the Continental
Congress. Exactly how we’ll take the fort is a thing I’ll have to think
out and talk over with Red Deer. But so far, how does it strike you?”
Gordon was radiant. “It’s great, Harry! It’s simply fine! And I read in
a book—the school history—that after it was all over Ethan Allen and
Seth Warner made a trip to Philadelphia and received the thanks of
Congress; and we’ll do that too, Harry, we—”
“I don’t just see how we could do that,” said Harry.
“Yes, we could, Harry; there’s a way. My uncle belongs to a club where
there’s a man who knows a senator, and he—”
“Now just come down to earth,” said Harry. “Do you suppose Allen was
figuring on the thanks of Congress before he did anything? You’re a nice
kind of patriot!”
They had reached the chasm and explored it together. Harry found a strip
of wood which had evidently held the three logs together when they
spanned the gully, and found that it contained several nails exactly
like the telltale one whose impressions he had followed. He even found
another one lying in the mud.
“It’s seldom a man commits a crime,” he said, “without either taking or
leaving something that he doesn’t mean to. Sometimes it isn’t large
enough to convict him. Sometimes it’s so small that it escapes notice.
But a hundred to one, he takes or leaves something. Come on, let’s get
away from here. You did great work, Kid.”
That was the last that Harry ever said, voluntarily, about the sordid
crime. He seemed disgusted at all mention of it and anxious to forget
it.
Emerging on the road where Gordon had seen the pink arrow, they started
north for their belated ascent of Dibble Mountain. Their purpose was to
get an outlook from its summit and go down its northern slope into the
little village of Crown Point. They had almost reached the point where
the stream ran under the road in its journey to the lake, when they
heard voices ahead, and presently came in sight of a country boy leaning
over the railing of the bridge and talking to some one below.
“Never heerd o’ no sech feller outside a book. I seen a book onct with a
guy by the name o’ Dan’l Boone onto it, but I never heerd tell o’ no
sech a feller in these parts; there’s a Dan’l Berry over to
Hammondville. How’s that?”
A voice answered from below, but Harry and Gordon could not hear what it
said.
“Oh, why didn’t ye say so?” the country boy called down. “Kind o’
play-actin’ folks, was they?”
By this time the boys had reached the bridge. Underneath, rocking gently
in the water, was the handsomest motor boat that Harry Arnold had ever
seen. Its brass trimmings shone dazzling in the morning sunlight.
Cushions of scarlet plush covered its seats, their vivid color thrown
into relief by the color of the boat itself, which was as white as snow.
Also as white as snow was the mustache of the gentleman who occupied it,
and the eyes which met those of Gordon and Harry as they looked down
were genial with just the suggestion of a humorous twinkle. He wore a
linen suit, very much wrinkled, and very much wrinkled, also, was the
kindly face, and rather scanty were the gray locks that showed under the
little blue yatching cap which he wore. A young man in chauffeur’s
attire sat near the engine with his hand on the steering-gear.
“Good morning,” said the gentleman. “How far can I get with this thing?”
“Not much farther, I’m afraid,” answered Harry. “How much does she
draw?”
“Now, you’ve got me,” said the gentleman, laughing. “How much does she
draw, Pat?”
Pat shook his head.
“She draws about twenty dollars a week in the summer,” said the
gentleman, “and if she were mine, I’d discharge her.”
“What seems to be the trouble?” laughed Harry.
“The trouble,” responded the gentleman, merrily, “is between herself and
my son—it’s not my quarrel. She is occasionally taken with carburitis,
which is a complaint of the carbureter. To-day she’s doing very nicely,
thank you. Do either of you boys know where the Boy Scouts have their
camp—how far up this stream? I’m trying to get to them.”
“We just came from there,” Harry answered. “They’re about two miles up,
but I’m afraid you’ll have to foot it. It’s pretty shallow and rocky
from here on.”
The gentleman put on his glasses. “Oh, yes,” said he, “I might have
noticed. Is that a blue shirt you’ve got on? The sun is right in my
eyes—you tall fellow, I mean?”
“It’s supposed to be blue,” laughed Harry.
“He’s got a khaki one,” added Gordon, “but he never wears it.”
“You belong up there, I suppose?”
“No, sir, we’ve been making them a visit. We’re a couple of tramps just
now.”
“Is that a leather wristlet you’ve got?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, just come—no, wait a minute—I’ll come up there.”
“Stay where you are, sir,” answered Harry. “We’ll come down.”
He led the way down as if he expected to be charged with a crime. He
suspected what was coming.
“Come in here, my boy—you too. My name is Robert E. Danforth. I have a
place across the lake. You saved my boy’s life yesterday—don’t attempt
to deny it! You’re the very boy I’m looking for. Did you give your name
as Buffalo Bill? You did—don’t deny it! Who are you, anyway? Why didn’t
you come up to the house so that we could thank you? Do you realize what
you did?”
Harry had hoped that he might hear nothing more of the incident, but
there was nothing now for him to do but face the music.
Mr. Robert E. Danforth, according to gossip, had begun life with nine
cents, and he now had nine million dollars. It was not likely that such
a man would permit the modesty of a boy scout to stand in the way of his
purpose. And his purpose now was to make suitable acknowledgment to the
boy who had saved his little son’s life. In the winter Mr. Danforth
worked very hard; in the summer he played very hard, and this was his
play season.
He would hear of nothing but that the two boys should go back with him
to Overlook, his magnificent estate on the Vermont shore. So the boat’s
prow was turned downstream and the little craft went chugging out
through the reedy basin and across the lake toward a beautiful
boat-house surmounted by an octagonal cupola, in one of the open arches
of which they could see a small figure. They were halfway across when
suddenly a white object shot from the cupola and dropped into the water
a few feet from the boat.
“Get it, Pat,” said Mr. Danforth, and the boat was steered over to the
floating object, which Harry reached for and secured. It was a little
aeroplane, crude enough in construction, having a plane about twenty
inches long, on which dried glue, somewhat sticky now from the plunge,
appeared in untidy masses. But as Harry lifted it, the propeller, which
was nothing but one of those celluloid fans which shoot into the air
when twisted from between the hands, began to revolve with a steady,
even motion, continuing for fully half a minute. Mr. Danforth smiled as
Harry examined it.
“He thinks he’s going to revolutionize juvenile aeronautics,” said the
father.
“Well, I don’t know but what he will!” said Harry. “What is this,
anyway?”
“It’s the alarm apparatus from a clock.”
The mechanism was bound with thread under the center of the plane. The
brass frame which encased a set of clockwork had been filed into and
broken off, so that nothing was left but a little corner of frame
holding a small clock spring, one little cogwheel, and the catch and
release teeth which create and govern the vibration of the upright
striking bar. The little metal knob, or striker, on the top of the bar
had been twisted off and, since its weight modified the striking action,
its removal created an excess of power which was here taken up by the
propeller. This latter was rather clumsily connected with the mechanism
by a light, flat-linked brass chain which ran around the cogwheel. The
trouble with the whole affair was its weight, which, though small, might
easily have been reduced still further.
They had now reached the boat-house, where the man jumped out and hauled
the craft in between two others, one a beautiful steam yacht. The other,
about the size of an ordinary rowboat, was covered with canvas. The
little boy whom Harry had rescued met them on the stairs, his eyes
glistening with tears.
“It’s the twenty-third time it wouldn’t go,” he said.
“Never mind, my boy,” said his father, putting his arm affectionately
over the little fellow’s shoulder. “Maybe it will go next time.”
“Twenty-three’s a hoodoo number, anyway,” added Harry. “Why do you send
it over the water?”
“Because if it flies across the lake, I’ll win the cup. But it won’t—it
never does.”
“Well, Pat will row out and get it for you every single time,” said his
father, soothingly.
“It’ll get spoiled—it’s spoiled now—the ones you buy go.” He almost
broke out crying, and Mr. Danforth looked as if the little fellow’s
disappointment actually hurt him.
“I was all this week and two days of last week making it—and it’s
spoiled.” He set his lips tight in a manly effort to control his
distress.
Harry stepped forward, placing his arm over the boy’s shoulder as his
father had done. “You remember me?” he said in his quiet way. “Well,
now, you listen a minute. Never mind if your machine is spoiled, you’ve
still got the idea and it’s a mighty good one, too. You can work it up
again and make it still better.” He smiled encouragingly and patted the
little fellow’s shoulder. The father was delighted.
“Hear that, Pen? This is the boy who got you out of the water
yesterday—come to see how you are—maybe he can give you some ideas.
Take him up to the aviation tower and show him things—show him the
cup.” He winked at Harry. “I want you boys to stay here till to-morrow,”
he called after them as Penfield led the way upstairs, “as a favor to
me.”
“I’m afraid we’ll never find our friends unless we get about it,” Harry
protested.
“Well, one day won’t make any difference. I want a chance to talk to
you. Come up to the house when you’ve seen his den.”
Penfield led them into a little octagonal room, littered thick with
shavings, pieces of silk, tangled masses of reed, and a fishing rod
which had been laid under contribution for strips of bamboo. Magazine
cuts of the various types of air craft, the Curtis, the Voisin, the
Cody, and the Wright, were tacked on the wall.
“That’s the Voisin,” said Penfield, excitedly, as Harry stood before the
picture. “It looks like the Wright, but it isn’t, it’s got more
longitudinal stability on account of the enclosed ends and partitions.
But it can’t coast like the Wright. I like monoplanes best, don’t you?
That’s the Bleriot. You can flex the tips of the planes, that’s one
thing about it I like. Pat likes the Antoinette model, but I don’t. The
Curtis is my favorite,—only, of course, that’s a biplane. You can’t
make a toy biplane fly, it needs too much control. But the Curtis is my
favorite. It’s the lightest of all, but that isn’t why I like it. And it
has the best finish, but that isn’t why I like it, either. It’s the
control; you lift and decline the fore planes by shifting the steering
wheel. And the balance is controlled by moving your body sideways. Isn’t
that a dandy idea? But I like the Wright brothers—my, I’d like to see
them!”
“Well, they began just like you,” said Harry.
There was one thing he noticed in particular as he picked up the broken
and unfinished models that lay about. The most common, everyday objects
had been used for some practical purpose. A circular typewriter eraser
acted as wheel to a cog chain. Metal paper clips were used to hold
joints. The circular, hollow bar of a gas jet held together and served
as ferrule and fore-weight to the three dowel sticks forming a
motor-base. The boy seemed to have his own way of doing everything, and
everything he had done was ingenious.
On a rough bracket, six feet or so above the floor, stood a battered
pewter stein.
“That the cup?” Harry asked.
“Yes, that’s it, but I can’t touch it—not till I’ve won it.”
“Who offered it?” Gordon asked.
“I did, but I make believe it was a club. I’m trying to win it—it’s a
trophy. I can’t even touch it till my monoplane flies across the lake.”
Gordon would have laughed, but he encountered Harry’s look, and
refrained.
“Well, now, let’s see,” Harry said, sitting down and taking the little
model on his knees. “I think we’re just the fellows for you. You’ve
heard of the Boy Scouts, I suppose. Well, we belong to the Scouts of
Oakwood, New Jersey, and there’s an aero club in our troop—”
“Oh, my father’s building a house there,” cried the boy.
“Where—Oakwood?”
“Yes, we’re going to live there this Fall when it’s finished. We’re not
going to live in the city any more.”
“Do you suppose he means the big house they’re putting up on the hill?”
Harry asked of Gordon.
“Yes, it’s on the hill,” Penfield spoke up, “and I’m going to sleep
outdoors.”
“Well, that’s news,” said Harry. “I wondered who was putting up that
house.”
“Yes, and may I join your aero club—if I make one that goes?”
“You certainly may!” said Harry. “You can join the troop, and then if
you are interested in aeroplanes you can join the little club six of the
boys have formed. There’s going to be a big meet in Oakwood this Fall;
any boy that lives in the county can enter his ’plane—provided he made
it. I believe the _Oakwood News_ is offering a cup, too, isn’t it,
Gordon? I don’t know very much about aeros myself.”
“He does too,” said Gordon.
Penfield was delighted. Excitedly he explained his crude little model to
Harry. And Harry saw that the novel motive power which he had used held
vast possibilities. He wound up the spring and found that the power
sustained the propeller in rapid motion for thirty-four seconds.
“Twelve seconds is the best ever done with elastic band torsion,” said
Penfield. It was evident that he had been studying the subject.
“Well, then,” said Harry, in a brown study. “I don’t see why we should
lose those twelve seconds. Let’s see, twelve and thirty-four make
forty-six. Forty-six seconds in the air will beat any model airship ever
made. Say that you lose six seconds for the transfer of power—there you
have forty left.”
“What do you mean?” asked both boys.
“Why, see here. The way they run these things usually—those you buy as
well as the home-made ones—is by a long, thin strand of elastic from
the axis of the propeller to a stationary hook. Wind the propeller and
it winds the elastic—there’s your power. Now, see this little jigger
here?” He put his finger on the upright wire bar on which the striker of
the alarm had been mounted. “This vibrates rapidly while the spring is
unwinding. Now, suppose you bend the top of it into a hook, wind up your
elastic, then wind up your spring. This striker bar will hold the wound
spring stationary until the power of the elastic is exhausted. As soon
as the elastic is run down, the spring goes to work. There are half a
dozen ways to connect the spring movement with the propeller—the catch
chain is one. You’ll have to work it out. I give you the tip—the name
is also thrown in—it’s the celebrated Strikastic Multiple Motor,
producing a sustained flight of about forty seconds. ‘Strike’ stands for
striker; ‘astic’ for elastic.”
“Or you might call it the Clockubber Transfer Motive System—that brings
in clock and rubber,” said Gordon. “Or better still, the Penalarm
Torsubber Champastic Double Motor—there you’ve got everything
in—Penfield, Alarm, Torsion, Rubber, Champlain, Elastic and—and—wait
a minute—”
“No aeroplane could carry such a name as that,” said Harry, “it would
keel right over. Now, old boy,” he said to Penfield, “if I were you, I’d
take time and make this right, and I believe you’ll have a winner. Make
your plane bigger—thirty inches anyway, and flex it. You take a wooden
pie plate and see how much higher it goes than a flat disk.
“Flex it this way” (he showed with pencil and paper); “then if I were
you I’d have the sticks of your motor-base, or backbone, as you might
call it, just wide enough apart to wedge this clockwork business
between; it’ll stand rigid and you’ll get rid of a lot of friction. You
might take away the brass frame altogether and line the wooden casing
with aluminum. You’ve got to have the spring farther aft than this so as
to have a good long span of elastic. I don’t know what will happen up in
the air when the power is transferred. Your propeller will probably slow
down a second or two; you’ve got to experiment with that. Your
difficulty is going to be in utilizing the power supplied by the spring
by some light, simple mechanism. Cogwheels eat up a lot of energy—but
there’s a way, as my old college chum here would say, and it’s up to
you.”
The boy stood radiant as they rose to go.
“Did _you_ think of using the alarm apparatus?” Harry asked him.
“Yes, but now I see what can be done with it—and—you’re a genius.”
“No, _you’re_ the genius,” Harry answered; “you’d have worked it up this
way sooner or later. You see, your plane was too small for your motor;
then, again, this isn’t a first-rate propeller, it hasn’t enough slant.”
“I know how to make one,” Penfield broke in. “You cut strips of
cigar-box wood, glue them on top of each other, put a nail in the
middle, then before they begin to dry, twist them a little, as you do
with a pack of cards. When the pile dries, whittle off the uneven edges,
and you’ve got a dandy propeller. It’s easier than trying to make one
out of one piece.”
“How’d you learn that?” Harry asked.
“Oh, I thought of it when I saw some one twist a pack of cards.”
They went up a gravel walk which wound through the green lawn, and found
Mr. and Mrs. Danforth on the porch. Penfield disappeared and Mrs.
Danforth greeted the boys, thanking Harry profusely for his service to
her son. They found it was true that Mr. Danforth was building a house
in Oakwood and that the family were to go there early in the Fall.
“We have done everything we could for Penfield,” said Mrs. Danforth. “We
bought this place so that he might have the mountain air, and we are
leaving New York for the same reason. Yet we can’t get him to go
outdoors and play with other boys. He would much rather sit in the house
and read. Last year the boys in Ticonderoga had a baseball eleven, the
small boys, and asked him to play quarterstop—”
“Shortstop,” corrected her husband.
“But we couldn’t get him to, he simply wouldn’t. And it was the same
with football. He _would not_ go on the frying pan.”
“Gridiron,” said Mr. Danforth.
“Diamond,” said Mrs. Danforth.
“No, ‘diamond’ is in baseball.”
“Well, then, where was it they wanted him to play quarterdeck?”
“Quarterdeck is on a ship; Roger said something about quarterback, but
Pen couldn’t play quarter.”
“Why don’t you have him join the scouts?” asked Gordon.
“I wish you boys would take him in hand this Fall,” said Mr. Danforth.
“He spends all his time indoors making aeroplanes and reading about
them.”
“Well, that’s a good thing,” said Harry. “But he ought to get outdoors,
of course. I’ve been telling him about an aviation contest they’re
getting up in Oakwood, and he thinks he’d like to enter. Suppose we get
him to join the scouts after we all get home, and then—”
“Do they shoot off guns?” asked Mrs. Danforth, looking fearfully at
Harry’s rifle.
“Sometimes, but not the younger ones. It would be a great thing for your
boy.”
The answer surprised him. “I think it would be splendid.”
An hour later, as Mr. Danforth was showing the boys over the place, he
stopped abruptly.
“You’ll stay over night with us?” Harry thanked him but said it was
impossible. He knew the house was full of guests; the tennis courts were
crowded with young people, among whom he could distinctly see the
valiant hero of the day before bobbing about, and he thought of his own
and Gordon’s very limited wardrobe. Then, too, they were anxious to lose
no more time.
“Well, then,” said Mr. Danforth, “I won’t urge you, but you know you’re
welcome. Now I want to make some little acknowledgment for what you did
yesterday—something in the way of a trophy, as you might say.” He had
evidently sized Harry up with his wonted business shrewdness, and he
avoided the word “reward.” His tact did him small good, however.
“I don’t think you could make any better acknowledgment than you have
done,” said Harry, feeling a trifle uncomfortable, as he always did when
any one praised him. He spoke in his customary careless tone, but his
nervous little smile seemed to say that he would like to have done with
all this. This uneasiness of the boy who was always so much the master
of himself was amusing.
“Of course, it would be absurd,” Mr. Danforth continued, “to ask you if
you are fond of the water.” Gordon’s eyes opened wide and he listened
with rapt attention. “The boat we came across in was recently brought up
from New York. But before that my elder son, who is away at present,
ordered one which we tried, but found too small for our parties. In
fact, it’s nothing but a little motor-dory. It’s down by the boat-house
now, and I want you to tumble your freight into it and take it along
just to remember us by—or leave it here till you come back if you’d
rather.” There was an awkward pause. Gordon stood in terrible suspense.
“I couldn’t do that, Mr. Danforth,” said Harry. “I don’t know how to
thank you, and if you knew how fond of the water I am, you’d see how the
idea of a present of that kind nearly turns my head. You’ve—you’ve hit
me in the weakest spot,” he said, kicking the gravel walk and smiling
ruefully, “but I can’t take it—I—I—just can’t.”
“Why can’t you?”
“Because it’s one of our rules to accept nothing for service to a
stranger. We have our own awards, honors, and of course we can try for
those. That’s different. Saving life isn’t always hard, anyway; the
little fellow isn’t heavy, and, well, I guess obeying rules is sometimes
harder. Maybe that’s the good thing about rules.” His foot still kicked
the gravel, nervously.
“Now, look here, my boy, you listen to me. That’s all nonsense, and
what’s more, I don’t believe you understand the rule.”
“Yes, I do, Mr. Danforth, it’s part of the law.”
“Well, see how lawyers differ about the law,” he went on cheerfully,
“and besides, you can’t have a law that isn’t constitutional—you must
know that. Now here’s a rule which infringes on personal liberty, which
forbids _me_ to dispose of a boat that I don’t want. That isn’t fair,
now, is it?”
“That’s right, Harry,” broke in Gordon, “we have no right to interfere
with personal liberty—no one would say that was right. We’d have no
right to even if we wanted to, Harry.”
Harry laughed in spite of himself.
“Last year,” Mr. Danforth went on, “I gave a thousand dollars to the
library out in the little Western town where I was born. They didn’t
refuse it. This year I gave five thousand dollars to help start a
hospital. They took it all right.”
“Well,” said Harry, “if you wanted to do something for the Scout
organization, I couldn’t stop you, but—”
Mr. Danforth seemed about to speak, then suddenly changed his mind,
studying Harry closely. The boy was not aware of the scrutiny, for his
eyes were on the ground. Neither did he know that he had put an idea
into this kindly gentleman’s shrewd mind.
“What, for instance?” Mr. Danforth asked.
“Oh, I don’t know; I didn’t just mean to say that.”
“Is there any reward, or honor, as you call it, for doing a service to
the Boy Scouts?”
“There is, yes, sir. But I think it’s only given in very rare cases.
There was one boy up in Maine who stopped a forest fire which threatened
a big summer pavilion that the organization owned. I think they made him
the award, but that’s the only case I’ve heard of. I think the rule
says, ‘rare and exceptional service,’ or something like that. My friend
here knows the regulations better than I do. I think that’s the only
case.”
“What is it called?”
“The gold cross,” said Harry.
“Where is the headquarters of the organization?”
“It’s in New York, sir,” said Gordon.
“I see.”
Penfield joined them, and they wandered down to the shore. “Let me show
you the boat, anyway,” Mr. Danforth urged.
“I’d rather not, sir,” said Harry, hesitatingly. “I—well, I’d just
rather not.” Instinctively he held out his hand, and Mr. Danforth shook
it cordially.
“There’s no use asking you to think it over?”
“No, sir, but I don’t know how to thank you—I wish I did. You’ll let
Penfield join us in the Fall, won’t you?”
“Of course, I want him to.”
“He’s going to walk away with the prize cup,” Harry added.
“Yes, and he’ll accept it, too,” was Mr. Danforth’s final shot, as the
two scouts got into the boat in which Pat was to take them across the
lake.
“Good-by, Pen,” said Harry, shaking hands with the little fellow. “You
work up that idea now, and make your planes large enough, and don’t
forget to flex them the way I showed you—get some strips of whalebone.
We’ll be home when you get to Oakwood, and we’ll sail in and win that
trophy so easily it’ll be a shame to take it.”
“He’s a mighty nice little fellow, and clever too,” Harry said, as they
crossed the lake. Gordon disdained to reply. Neither did he speak as
they left the boat and started across the quarter-mile stretch of flat
country toward Dibble Mountain.
“Where are we going, anyway?” he finally demanded sullenly.
“Up Dibble Mountain to spy round the country—where’d you think?” was
Harry’s cheery answer.
“How’d _I_ know?”
“Why, that was the idea, wasn’t it?”
“I don’t care where we go.”
“What’s the matter, Kid?”
“Nothing the matter with _me_. Goodness, I can speak, can’t I!”
“Well, what are you grouching about, then?”
“Who’s grouching?”
“You are; don’t you want to hunt up the troop?”
“Oh, certainly, if you care to.”
“We’d be a couple of gumps to go back home now.”
“Well, there’s more than one way of being a gump.”
“Refusing a boat, for instance? What do I want of a boat? I’ve got you
along, Kid, and that’s all I care about. I’d rather have you than twenty
boats. Come now, brace up, old man.”
“You didn’t have sense enough to be convinced by reason. That was a fine
argument about the public library and the hospital.”
“I know it, Kid. I don’t claim to have much sense—you’ll just have to
put up with me.”
“You won’t gain anything, either,” Gordon continued spitefully. “My
father knows him; he belongs to a trust and he’ll manage to get around
the law all right.”
“He’s a pretty shrewd business man, I should say,” Harry commented.
“You bet he is, and he’ll think up a way.”
“He’s like you, Kid, eh?”