The makers of Kiwi’s uniform had added a touch of their own, and had sewed on a small pair of embroidered wings. But on this point Dad was firm. The wings could not be worn. “For,” he said, “you are not a pilot, Kiwi, and until you have learned to fly, no wings.”
This started Kiwi off anew on his demands to be taught to fly. He had worked on Jack on every possible occasion to get a promise of instruction from him. But so far no definite promise had been made. Jack, at odd times, had been teaching him the wireless code. By now Kiwi knew it by heart, and every evening, when possible, Jack would get him to learn the sing of the letters. Tacked over Kiwi’s bed was this card with the dots and the dashes and the letters they stood for:
Continental Wireless Code
For Use of Planes and Ships at Sea
On Saturday afternoon, the party arrived with the attractive daughter, her mother, and a bottle of what they hoped was pre-war champagne. The field was crowded. A small platform had been built and the machine wheeled up to it so that the attractive daughter could just reach the big propeller. Both Billings and Cosgrave had spent the whole morning cleaning and polishing the plane until it shone. Jack, the Skipper and Kiwi were all in their uniforms. As they stood on the little platform in the bright sun, to the tune of clicking movie cameras, the bottle of champagne was brought down smartly on the metal propeller, and the young girl said, in a clear voice:
“I christen thee ‘Dauntless’, and wish thee all the luck in the world for thy big adventure.”
The crowd cheered, and the golden liquid foamed and bubbled as it ran down the long blade of the propeller. Everyone was happy. Any doubt of their success seemed out of place on this bright, sunny afternoon. Dad and Jack’s confidence in their machine and in themselves radiated from them.