"Certainly. We keep Flying rigs in all manner of sizes. It’s in the way of business," Sherbrand said. Then his glance fell upon Davis, whose little black-avised countenance wore an expression of sulky resentment, and he uttered a slight exclamation. "I forgot, Davis! I really am very sorry!" He turned to von Herrnung and explained in a tone of finality that enraged the hearer: "This is Davis’s afternoon off. I cannot ask him to repeat the climb." "It is hellishly annoying! But see! Listen, my fellow!" He addressed himself to little grimy Davis, unhelmeted and unbuttoned, leaning against the Bird’s flank with his hands in the pockets of his oily overalls, chewing a blade of grass; "You will go up with me if I tip you? A sovereign! Come then! The gold does it! You will go up with me, will you not, yes?" Davis spat out grass and delivered himself: "Not even for my young guv’nor—and a Bank of England finnup, do I do the soaring heagle hact again this blooming Wednesday." Welsh Davis had come to London from a mountain farm in Merioneth, speaking nothing but his native Cymric, and had culled his Sassenach from Cockney lips. Von Herrnung bid another sovereign, and then two more, ineffectually. "Naow!" Davis was rock. "I’ve done my day’s stunt an’ I’m nuffy. D’yer tumble? Nuffy! Yer knaows wot that means—if you’re a Flying Bloke!" "Damn you, I will gif you ten pounds!" Von Herrnung’s face was wrung and streaked with passion. He breathed hard, and the brown leather satchel jumped and wobbled in his shaking hand. "It isn’t any use," said Sherbrand, "really! Money doesn’t count with Davis where his off-time’s concerned. Davis doesn’t want to go up again, and I’ve not another man of his weight available. What do you turn the scale at? I should guess 16 stone or thereabouts?" "I weigh 16 st. 8 lbs. in my ordinary clothes." "Well, I tot 11 st. 6 lbs. in the fullest of flying-rig, and Davis only 8 st. 5 lbs. And the Bird is built to carry in addition to her engine—what with the instruments, so forth, and man-freight, a cargo of something like 22 stone. You see, even with Davis, you’d load the machine a good bit over her"—he smiled at the conceit—"her Plimsoll mark. Again, I’m sorry. It’s your luck! No flying for you to-day!" "It is damnably annoying! But"—von Herrnung’s red-lashed blue eyes were busily scanning Bawne’s face and figure—"but suppose I could get a boy of 6 stone to go up with me? Merely as ballast, for I do not require an assistant—the difficulty might be got over in this way? What you say, my little English fellow?" He turned on the boy with a great air of jovial patronage. "Are you plucky enough? Shall we go for a voyage together in the sky?" "Yes—please!"