“I’ll have your job!” Instantly he wished he had been silent. The policeman looked at him appraisingly, then smirked: “You couldn’t hold it!” “Listen, Mister,” Welkfurn said appeasingly, trying to hurry the matter, “a friend of mine’s liable to get killed if I don’t get back to the field in a hurry! Can’t I sign a bond and then go on?” “That’s better. Yeah, you can sign a bond.” He produced it, filled it out, and Welkfurn signed it hurriedly. “I’m goin’ into town behind ya,” the cop continued. “Better not go no faster’n the law allows, or you can’t sign a bond next time!” Welkfurn drove ahead at what seemed to him a snail’s pace, the cop following at a distance. * * * * * In town at last, and free of the policeman, Welkfurn opened up his car and tore through traffic toward the jeweler’s place. Twice he was whistled at by traffic-officers, but both times he got away. He thought, mirthlessly, “I’ll be afraid to come to town for a month after this ride!” Ill luck pursued him, as it often does when haste is most essential. Rounding a corner at thirty miles an hour, he was suddenly confronted by a huge truck that almost blocked the street. He tried to dodge through--thought he had made it. There was a crash, his car careened drunkenly and skidded to a stop. A rear wheel lay splintered on the pavement; the axle of the car was resting on the curb. [Illustration: He was suddenly confronted by a huge truck. He tried to dodge through. There was a crash, and his car careened drunkenly.] It required ten precious minutes to pacify the truck-man. Welkfurn was made to fill out a card, giving his name and address and phone number. At last he was allowed to go, and he ran frantically to the store. He burst in and asked, breathlessly, for the clock. “Somebody just called about you,” the jeweler told him. “Seemed like he was sore about something. I told him you hadn’t been here, and he said for you to hurry up, that they were waiting for you out there.” “Good! If he’ll only wait, everything’ll be all right. If he takes off without this clock, there’ll be hell to pay!” He grabbed the instrument and hurried out. He found a cab and gave the driver directions, offering a double rate for speed. But on the highway the cab moved along at a speed within the limits of law. Looking back, Welkfurn saw the same motorcycle cop who had detained him earlier riding steadily along a hundred yards behind. The cab left the highway and entered the reservation. The driver shoved the throttle down now, and in less than a minute more turned onto the road that led to the balloon hangar. And at that moment Welkfurn saw the _Marie_, gray and stately against the haze, rise slowly in the air. * * * * *