“Good,” he fairly shouted.
I looked at him a little curiously, wondering why he was so interested in my visit to the Emerald Isle.
“Let us go together,” he continued enthusiastically, “and take the aeroplane.”
This was certainly a novel proposition, and I laughed so heartily at the idea of flying through Ireland that Mike got impatient.
“Don’t you think we can do it?” he asked.
“Let us wait till morning,” I answered evasively, “and we will see about it.” Mike’s face fell, and I could see he thought I was not a thorough convert to the aeroplane art.
There is something of the Scotchman about me, and I wanted to know a little more about the “bird” business before I started on a vacation trip with wings. An Irish bog would not be a bad place for an aeronaut to alight in case he had to descend unceremoniously, but I didn’t want to spoil a nice outing in Ireland by breaking my neck trying to fly.
The next morning we were up with the birds and soon had the aeroplane all ready for a flight. The Wright aeroplane ascends from a “starting rail,” which is merely a stout board turned up on end.
The meadow was an ideal place to fly. It was an immense level field, about half a mile long, and quarter of a mile broad. I had all confidence in Mike and had no reason to believe he meant to destroy me, but I was just a little shaky as I climbed up into the second seat over the motor.
Mike vaulted easily into his seat, started the motor, and in a few seconds we were off. I can never describe the excitement of the next ten minutes. We rose to the height of about 80 feet, and then sailed rapidly round and round the field. The sensation of flying was something entirely new. I was exhilarated, charmed, delighted. After I became a little used to it I was able to observe the field below, which glided under us with marvelous speed.