"You were certainly old, and you were certainly in that chair--most of your time," I answered good-humoredly. (I was beginning to like him immensely!) "What an escape! . . . What a miracle! . . . And this time next year? . . ." "Aren't you _ever_ going to tell me of this project of yours?" I pleaded, appropriately. "Very soon, George! Next week I'm going down to Brooklands." "You intend trying or buying a motor car--or aeroplane?" I gasped. "A mere detail! But I refuse to be pumped. You'll hear everything in good time, George. . . ." So I still had to wait impatiently for the Day of Revelation! CHAPTER VII MR. STRINGER COMES TO BREAKFAST It was easy to see that Gran'pa's reference to Brooklands could mean one of only two things--motoring or aeroplaning. But I never expected what actually followed. The old man--or should I say the young one?--came home one evening in a state of feverish excitement. "I've been flying, George!" he announced buoyantly. "Skylarking?" I asked, "or really leaving the earth for the air?" "Flying!" he emphasized, flapping his hands and arms about. "This afternoon I went to Bournemouth and back . . . for a little trial spin." "A trial spin?" I echoed, wondering what bigger project he had in view. He nodded and drew in a great breath. It was spring, and the windows were open, and the air was like wine. Gran'pa seemed to be half intoxicated. "By the Lord Harry!" he exclaimed. "It's the greatest thing I've done. We left Brooklands at two sharp and were back at a quarter to five--with two loops and a nose-dive _en route_. I've fixed up another jaunt on Sunday--with you and Molly. And next week I'm popping over to Rome and back. If the journey's satisfactory, I intend buying the machine." "Doing what?" I gasped. His eyes twinkled as he watched Molly and me, and with an exaggerated nonchalance, he lit his pipe and sat down on the edge of the dining-room table--the very embodiment of a vigorous, middle-aged man, at least fifty years younger than himself. . . . "I've a specification here, somewhere," he said, fumbling in his breast pocket, and presently drawing out a scrap of paper. "Vickers-Vimy Rolls-Royce. The most reliable combination in the world, George, . . . Just read that through and tell me what you think of it." I read through a specification which might have been Yiddish, so little did it enlighten me. "It looks as if it will cost a fortune," I observed. "Not at all! In fact, I'm getting three brand new ones." I tried to pass some comment on this amazing man's new outbreak, but could not. I was literally tongue-tied. It was the most stupendous exhibition of idiocy I had ever encountered. One might conceivably buy three motor cars; but, three aeroplanes . . . ! "What in heaven's name do you intend doing with them?" I managed to say at last. "Is it to be the nucleus of a new Air Force?" "No! Just a little private venture--for the public good!"