“Here’s a big guy in his line,” said David. “Sanford Hamilton, of New York, and a dozen other places. Has so much money he can’t count it, but just can’t stop making more. Has the habit.” “Wish I could get a habit like that. Well, the Ryans own the two most worthless farms on God’s green earth, and I never can get over expectin’ to see a fine squirt of oil come leapin’ out of them, although the experts say they are as dry as dust. Who’s next on the list?” “Dr. Martin Trigg, and Dr. Nicholas Sims. They are the two old professors from Princeton. Scientists of some sort—big bugs.” “I helped ’em aboard,” said Red, chuckling. “One of ’em said ‘Thank you, my boy, thank you,’ just as pretty, but the other looked at me till I felt like a bug on a pin.” “The next four I haven’t seen,” said David. “Skip ’em,” counseled Red. “Reporters. Wild-eyed, sort of. You can always tell ’em. Always huntin’ a scoop for the next edition, regardless of time or place.” “These two are men Commander Hammond is trying to interest in dirigibles.” “Uh huh,” said Red. “Be polite.” “Emil Hausen—he’s a German. We leave him at Friedrichshafen.” “I must practice my German on him,” said Red. “I know four fine upstandin’ words: _Ach du lieber Augustin_. Would you think they’d sound homelike to the poor wanderer, Davie?” “Try ’em!” laughed Davie; “I’ll pick up the pieces.” He wandered off, stopping to admire the salon. In one corner, at a small but perfectly appointed desk, Mr. Hamilton already sat dictating rapidly to his secretary. The great king of Wall Street was preparing to radio his orders, keeping a tight rein on his active money. At a window the two old scientists, Doctors Trigg and Sims, quarreled in low, tense tones over something referred to in such lengthily technical terms that David did not know whether they had disagreed about dinosaurs, angleworms, or air currents. As David passed, the smaller of the two men looked up and nodded. “Well, son,” he chirruped in a pleasant crisp voice, “making fair progress, I should say. This your first trip? Great experience; illuminating, developing. Make the most of it—you are young. Perhaps you will like it so well that before we have entirely circumnavigated the globe, you will have sprouted mental wings and will accept the ether for your habitat. I hope so—I hope so! Aerial navigation needs young blood, young enthusiasms.” “Bosh!” retorted the second sage, Doctor Sims himself. “Bosh! There is no young enthusiasm; it’s grown old, money loving, comfort seeking; its bones creak. Don’t I know? Don’t I teach about a hundred and fifty youngsters every day of the week? Bah!”