At eleven he went
to bed. Tinker had gone to bed long before, but his door was just
open, and he saw the financier go into his room. Five minutes later he
stole across the corridor, and, without knocking, opened the door and
went in. The financier was sitting at a table, gazing through a mist
of tears at a nice, new nickel-plated revolver. He had no real
intention of blowing his brains out, but with the childlike, emotional
spirit of his race, he had persuaded himself that he had, and was
luxuriating in his woe.
"What do you want?" he moaned.
"I've come to show you a way of getting to Paris," said Tinker, closing
the door softly.
"Mein Gott!" cried the millionaire, relapsing into his vernacular in
his excitement. "How? How?"
"By Herr Schlugst's flying-machine."
"A flying-machine! Is the boy mad?"
"No, I'm not. I've been with Herr Schlugst on three trial trips; and
the last two he let me work it most of the time. It's as easy as
winking, once you know how to do it, and he says I understand it as
well as he does. It's all ready for the journey. We've only got to
get into it without waking him; and he sleeps like a log."
"Mein Gott! Mein Gott! What a plan! I'm to fly in the air with a
little boy! Oh, good gracious me! Good gracious me! What am I to
do?" And he stamped up and down, wringing his hands.
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