"Well, I never!" gasped Doctor Slamper, falling back against a center table. "Why, my dear young men, I think"
"And the Dartaway is gone—our dear old flying machine!" groaned Tom. "The machine we hoped to fly in to Washington, to the next inauguration. Why, don't you know that the planes of that machine were covered with the autographs of most of the big men of this country? Whenever we sailed around to visit our friends or the big men we had them write their autographs on the canvas wings of the machine. Those autographs alone were worth about a million, more or less!"
"What's this?" put in Belright Fogg, quickly. "A flying machine valuable because of the autographs on it? Preposterous! If you think the railroad will stand to pay anything on such a thing as that, you are mistaken."
"But how are we to get those autographs back?" whined Tom. "Some of the men who gave them may be dead now!"
"See here, let us get down to business," cried Belright Fogg. "You don't look to be knocked out at least, not a great deal anyway. Am I right, Doctor?"
"I—I think so. Of course they may be—be shocked a little," returned the physician.
