Carson smiled wanly. “That’s my general,” he said.
Slim went back to duty, and André and the pilot refilled the plane’s tank from the cans they had brought from the Gagnon pump.
Carson took a dismal look at the gray-blanketed landscape. With André’s help, he rolled the machine around so that it headed away from the hedge. “Want to get in while I taxi her into position?” Carson asked.
“You are permitted—?” André cried.
Carson laughed. “Of course I’m not permitted—but what’s the difference? Climb in.”
André clambered into the seat beside the pilot’s. Carson turned a switch, adjusted the throttle, swung the propeller, and the engine started promptly. “Now, fasten that seat belt and hold on, this field’s bumpy.”
With a surge of power, the plane began to move. Skillfully the pilot ruddered a jolting course around the potholes and stumps, to the far corner of the meadow. “Need all the run I can get for the take-off,” he explained.
Faced around for a diagonal course, he throttled the engine. “Gosh, I think the fog is beginning to break,” he cried.
He leaned out to observe the wind direction which already was beginning to ruffle the tops of the trees.
“I’d feel better if I knew this country,” he said. “You know it like your own hand, I suppose?”