Kiwi had made many friends around the field—the men in greasy overalls who tinkered with the engines, Old Bill who kept the lunch stand at the end of the field and who had made his name famous for having packed the sandwiches for several earlier cross-Atlantic flights. But there was a scarcity of boys of his own age. There were plenty who were older and who seemed to be able to convince the instructors on the field that they could learn to fly.
Kiwi felt a lack of the proper arguments to use. He was sure he could fly if they would give him a chance. But as soon as he brought up the subject, they insisted on talking down to him as if he were a child.
Kiwi felt that it was Old Bill at the lunch wagon who eventually got him his first ride in the new plane. His father and Jack had dashed down for a hurried lunch, and Old Bill said to Kiwi, “Well, how does she handle?” Kiwi had blushed to the roots of his hair and admitted that he did not know. Whereupon Old Bill had turned to his Dad and said, “What, you haven’t taken this boy up yet?” And his father had answered, “He’ll get his ride—perhaps tomorrow.”
That night, after considerable pestering, his father gave him a definite promise that if the next day were fine he’d get that first ride.
Old Bill
