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CHAPTER X
The Episode of the Blimp
PHIL DION — he grinds for us — called me up the other afternoon. Said he had something he wanted to show me. I promised to meet him soon as possible, and forty red lights later, I was being whisked skyward in one of those new, uncannily silent elevators that modern buildings affect.
Entering Phil’s room, I found him, arms, akimbo, frowningly surveying a large rectangular case.
“Hullo,” greeted my friend, not removing his eyes from the box. Upon opening, it revealed a huge air propeller whose tips were badly splintered.
“Where did you get that old relic?” I asked Phil as he instructed a couple of men to mount it over his mantel. “From the DO-X?” “Nope.”
“Wooden props are rare these days,” I observed, puzzled at the trophy. “Is it from some famous plane of the ])ast?”
“Nope. It’s from a blimp,” Dion replied with provocative reticence. “Why the shattered ends?” I persisted. “I should think it would he a pretty handsome outfit if you’d have them cut off and the butts polished.”
“Nothing doing!” he replied vehemently; then, making a wry face: “That pin wheel stays as is. A memento of a sad, sad experience.”
“All right, all right,” I said, knowing he was aching to tell it. “Let’s have the sordid details.”
“Chic, you know this game,” Dion began. “Sometimes you’re on top, hitting the reel every week; others, you just drag bottom and j’ou’re in the ‘dog house.’ ”
“Go on,” I grinned, “I’ve got the crying towel out.”
“Rert Kerry, my partner, and I have just finished a bad session.
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