“Yes.”
“Shoot. What is it?”
“We won’t land there.”
“Go right on to Cuzco?”
“Not so foolish as that. Dad wouldn’t stand for it. We’ll give our island of Cuba so much space that the inhabitants won’t even see a speck of us, and we’ll make our landing on Jamaica. There’s a port called Montego and I’m sure the inhabitants will be delighted to see a couple of little boys who are trying to get along in the world.” Bob glanced at the map, did some mental figuring, and nodded his approval.
“We may as well keep our rear seat from knowing what our front seats are doing,” he grinned.
“You get brighter by the minute, old man.”
“It’s the company I keep. I’d be much better if you weren’t such a poor skate,” Bob retorted.
“Grab your parachute, man, you are going to be dropped into yon briny.”
“Unhand me. I say, let’s eat in the air. We’ll announce that later to Dad. Gosh, he’ll think we’re bum pilots not being able to see Cuba,” Bob chuckled.