“Here’s old Armbruster—the fellow who taught me to fly.”
Kiwi looked the new man over with the greatest admiration, for Dad had told him many stories of Armbruster’s flying skill. He remembered Dad’s telling how he would take off from the ground into a loop, just missing the field by inches as he came around; how he had, on a dare, flown through a long hangar with just a few inches to spare on either side; how he used to fly across the tops of some saw-tooth hangars, just touching his wheels lightly on the top of each peak as he passed. Dad had said that Armbruster was the most natural flyer he had ever seen. He never needed instruments to tell him what he was doing.
Armbruster, when he found out who Kiwi was, made a great fuss over him. He asked Kiwi all about Dad and what he had been up to. He wanted to know all about their flight and about the plane they were using. He suggested that he and Kiwi should go and inspect the “Dauntless.” Of course Kiwi liked the idea.
Leaving Dad gossiping with old friends, they walked over to where the plane stood and climbed over it. As they were sitting in the cockpit together, Kiwi turned to Armbruster with the greatest seriousness and said:
“You know, sir, I have never really learned to fly, but Dad has been promising to teach me for an awfully long time. Do you think, Mr. Armbruster, maybe you could find time to do it?”
Armbruster was delighted.
“Sure,” he said. “I know just the plane, and later I will borrow it and we will send you off in no time.”
ARMBRUSTER
After they had inspected all the instruments, some of which were new to Armbruster, they climbed out of the cockpit, Armbruster remarking that never before had he seen such a big petrol tank in a plane. Then turning to Kiwi, he asked: “How would you like to make a tour around and see some of our machines?”