“I will be supposed to worship in silent awe, perhaps?” “You be interested, and I’ll do the worshipping,” grinned Hemingwood. “You don’t appear to be of the reverent sort. However, I’ll look forward to it. Good-by until this afternoon!” She threw him a smile and urged her fat white horse into a lumbering gallop. “She’s no East Point girl; she’s just out of college and getting a year’s experience or something!” soliloquized Hemingwood. “Must be some little schoolhouse up at that settlement I saw from the air. Cute kid, and she knows what it’s all about too.” He resumed his pilgrimage to East Point, musing contentedly on the prospect before him. He had not proceeded five hundred yards, however, before loud clanking and rattling announced the fact that there was a vehicle approaching. A battered Ford truck bounced into sight and clattered up to him, slowing gradually. Loose tools in the rear were responsible for the weird combination of noises given forth by the flivver. Two men were in the seat. The truck stopped alongside the flyer, and the fat man at the wheel hailed him. “Mornin’! Git down all right?” “Yes, thanks. Nothing the matter. Landed on purpose.” “I see. Lookin’ fur anything special around hyar?” The driver’s round, red face was the setting for a pair of small, green eyes encased in rolls of fat. He was dressed in greasy mechanic clothing and a battered felt hat. His companion was a gaunt man of middle age, boasting a drooping mustache and a melancholy look. “I’m going to town to look for gas and oil and a place to sleep right now.” “Climb in hyar, and I’ll take yuh t’ town,” offered the fat man, who seemed to be making a determined effort to be genial. Without a word his companion uncoiled his long length and languidly transferred himself into the rear of the truck. He was dressed in a black shirt and dirty khaki trousers and his felt hat was in as decrepit a condition as the driver’s. The Ford had barely turned around when the vanguard of the sightseers passed in two flivvers, both loaded to the guards with coatless men of all ages. They peered at Hemingwood with concentrated attention as they dashed by. “I keep the garage hyar an’ I c’n let yuh have all the gas yuh want,” offered the driver. “Well, I’ve made arrangements in advance with Mr. Mumford,” lied Hemingwood. Just why he had said it he did not know. It was an impulse, but a sensible one. He intended to buy the gas of Mumford because of the girl, and he might as well avoid antagonizing anyone in East Point if he could. The driver grunted. He was plainly disappointed. “Gettin’ right out?” he enquired. “No, I’ll be here several days.” The man glanced at him quickly, and the flyer felt instinctively that the man behind him was staring at him steadily and listening closely. “What fur?” The forthright question was like a blow. “I was sent here to take a lot of pictures from the air,” Hemingwood explained.