I was
kind of disappointed. But what do you think? It was that J.
A. D. McCurdy, in a Curtiss biplane--I think it was--and by
golly! he got to circling around and racing and tipping so's I
thought I'd loose my hat off, I was so excited. And, say, what
do you think? I see McCurdy himself, afterward, standing near
one of the--the handgars--handsome young chap, not over
twenty-eight or thirty, built like a half-miler. And then I see
Ralph Johnstone and Arch Hoxey--"
"Gee!" Mr. Wrenn was breathing.
"--dipping and doing the--what do you call it?--Dutch
sausage-roll or something like that. Yelled my head off."
"Oh, it must have been great to see 'em, and so close, too."
"Yuh--it sure was."
There seemed to be no other questions to settle. Mr. Wrenn
slowly folded up his paper, pursued his check under three plates
and the menu-card to its hiding-place beyond the catsup-bottle,
and left the table with a regretful "Good night."
At the desk of the cashier, a decorative blonde, he put a cent
in the machine which good-naturedly drops out boxes of matches.
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