Dorothy sprang to her father's chair and caught his arm. "Will you really let me, Dad?" she cried in delight.
"Mr. Bolton says that Bill is an A-1 instructor--and he claims that flying is no more dangerous than sailing twenty-footers in a nor'easter, so I suppose--"
"Oh--you darling!" Dorothy flung her arms about his neck.
"Here--here--" cried Mr. Dixon. "You're ruining my collar, and my cigar--"
"Have another," suggested Mr. Bolton. "I'd willingly ruin boxes of cigars if I had a daughter who'd hug me that way!"
"Aren't you nice!" She turned about and bestowed a second affectionate embrace on that gentleman. "That is because you aren't quite as mean as your son--he's the limit!"
"Never slang your instructor," sang out Bill. "That's one of the first rules of the air."
"Seriously, Dorothy," her father interposed. "This is a big responsibility Bill is taking--and I want your word that you'll do just as he says. No more running off and smashing up a plane as you did the Scud this afternoon!"
"All right, Dad. I promise. But what am I to learn in? Bill says that the Amphibian is too heavy--and she's not equipped with dual controls."
Mr. Dixon lit a fresh cigar. "I see that you've already started your flight training."