Damon. "I'd like to be in
that."
"Well, I'm building a machine that will carry two," went on Tom, "and if
you think you can stand a speed of a hundred miles an hour, or better,
I'll let you come with me. There are some races where a passenger is
allowed."
"Have you got a razor?" asked Mr. Damon suddenly.
"What for?" inquired Mr. Swift, wondering what the eccentric man was
going to do.
"Why, bless my shaving soap! I'm going to cut off my beard. If I go in a
monoplane at a hundred miles an hour I don't want to make any more
resistance to the wind than possible, and my whiskers would certainly
hold back Tom's machine. Where's a razor? I'm going to shave at once. My
wife won't mind when I tell her what it's for. Lend me a razor, please,
Tom."
"Oh, there's plenty of time," explained the lad, with a laugh. "The race
doesn't take place for over two months. But when it does, I think you
would be better off without a beard."
"I know it," said Mr. Damon simply. "I'll shave before we enter the
contest, Tom.
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