"But what does that mean?"
"I see we'll have to start your training right now, Miss Student Pilot--Controls is a general term applied to the means proved to enable the pilot to control the speed, direction of flight, altitude and power of an aircraft.--Savez?"
"You sound like a text book--but I get you."
"All right. Now, unless we want the bus washed up on the beach, we'd better shove off."
Fastening the door to the deck after them, they passed through the cabin and into the pilot's cockpit where head-phone sets were at once adjusted. The amphibian bobbed and swayed at the push of little waves. The sun's face, scrubbed clean and bright by wind and rain was reflected in the rippling water; whilst wet surfaces of leaves, lawns, tree trunks and housetops bordering the inlet gleamed in a wash of gold.
Little gusts of fresh air blew in through the open windows filling the cockpit with a keen sweet odor of wet earth.
Dorothy drew a deep breath. "My! the air smells good after that storm!"
"You bet--" agreed Bill. "But I'll smell brimstone when your father comes into the picture, if we don't shove off pronto for New Canaan."
"Oh, that's just like a boy--" she pouted.
"Shush! student--Listen to your master's--I mean,--your instructor's voice, will you?"