“Wait and see,” the aviation editor of the _Era_ retorted. Winship was a tall, spare old man. In his pale, gaunt face his eyes seemed incongruously large and black. He was carefully adjusting a flying helmet while he catechized Nat Scoggins, Syd’s brother. Scoggins was not happy. He was answering volubly, but his eyes were uneasily dwelling upon his employer, who stood within three feet of one of the whirring wing propellers. As King Horn, in his impeccable flying kit, approached, Winship stopped talking and peered at him with keen interest. “A friend of mine--one of the best pilots in the business, Mr. Winship,” Franklin Cross said. “Hope I’m not intruding, sir,” said King Horn politely as Winship nodded. He smiled at the nervous pilot. “Hello, Nat.” Nat Scoggins grinned back, a trifle sheepishly. “’Lo,” he said. “You ought to wear that type of knickers, Scoggins,” declared Mr. Winship suddenly. “It is very smart.” “I can fly withou---- Yes, sir,” Scoggins said. Mr. Winship turned to King Horn with a benevolent smile. “I am sorry I cannot ask you and Miss--ah--the young lady to join us on this flight over New York, but with Mr. Cross the ship is full,” he said. He waved a hand back toward the fuselage. “I am giving my board of directors a baptism of air.” King Horn looked toward the cabin of the ship. Through the windows he caught a glimpse of several heads, white, grizzled or bald, bobbing about a trifle apprehensively. One, like Winship, sported an unnecessary helmet. King smiled reminiscently at Winship’s elaborate regrets. “Thanks,” he said. “I’ve been over New York.” “No doubt, no doubt,” said Mr. Winship. “We old-timers are children at all this.” As if to prove it, he cinched on his helmet, turned and gravely walked directly toward the twirling, half-visible propeller. With a howl Scoggins jumped for him. King Horn jumped, too, and faster. Together they pulled the startled financier away from the man-killing club. “What--what” stammered Winship. Then he stopped. The unfortunate Scoggins, in voiceless agony, was bent over and walking a few steps this way and that. His left hand clutched his right. His teeth were clenched and his face contorted in agony. The idling prop had tapped him on the arm. “Broken!” he gritted. “Broken!” Lyle went to him, and he permitted her to touch his arm. “It is broken; we must find a doctor,” she said. Her voice was full of pity. “Hold it like that.” Scoggins supported his arm. His self-possession came back to him. He turned to Winship. “Can’t fly for a while,” he said tersely. “Sorry.” “You must have my car,” the old man replied. “Smithers will take you to Garden City.” He motioned to his chauffeur, who stood at a discreet distance beside the hangar. “I appreciate what you have done for me; you’ll not regret it, young man. Meanwhile, full pay during your disability.”