Meantime his companion rattled on volubly. He told Frank his name was Park Gregson. He was a sort of a "knockaround." He had been with a circus, had fought Indians, had been major in the South African War, had circumnavigated the globe twice, in fact, a Jack-of-all-trades and master of none for over fifteen years.
"That balloon," he explained, "belongs to a professional aeronaut. He hired me to help him. She's a new one, that yonder. I was making a trial cruise. Professor Balmer, who owns her, is at Circleville. As I say, I must wire him to come and get her on her feet again."
"You mean her wings?" suggested Frank.
"Exactly. Ready? No, you needn't help me, I'm only a trifle bruised and stiff."
Frank led the way townwards. He stopped at the house to put his bicycle away. Then he accompanied his companion to the railroad depot. Here Park Gregson wrote out a telegram and handed it to the operator.
"Expect an answer," he observed. "I'll call for it. No, send it to me. I say, Newton," he addressed Frank with friendly familiarity, "where's the best place to put up till the professor reports himself?"
"There's a fairly good hotel here," said Frank.
