“We’ll look out.” They both rubbed Pat’s nose, then climbed into the cock-pit of Her Highness, this time Bob took the pilot’s seat.
“Need any help?”
“Not a bit, thanks.” Bob opened her up, the engine bellowed, the propeller spun and Her Highness raced forward, lifted her nose as if sniffing the air, then climbed into it. Jim waved at the man, who wondered if he had not better telephone the Fentons and tell them to keep the boys out of any trouble. On second thought, he decided against it. After all, their own air men were watching from above, and as they were every one of them experts at the game, they would report things long before the boys could possibly have their suspicions aroused. It would be too bad to spoil their fun, and if they would enjoy keeping an eye on the world, let them do it. They appeared to be a pretty decent pair of kids.
“You almost flew off with them, Old Top,” he remarked, giving the horse an affectionate pat, “and only yesterday you bared your teeth and scared the wits, what little he has, out of that Canuck. You are a discriminating old cuss.” He leaped into the saddle, but he waited to make a note of the meeting of the boys and their account of themselves. “Even at that they may be stringing me,” he remarked a bit uneasily as he glanced toward the fast disappearing speck in the sky, but he dismissed the thought immediately for he felt confident the step-brothers were entirely trustworthy.
In the meantime Her Highness climbed in swift spirals for three thousand feet, then Bob leveled her off, set his course and started toward North Hero, which is one of many delightful bits of land in Lake Champlain. Presently the boys could see a tiny shack with the British Flag floating on one side, the Stars and Stripes on the other.
“They look like good pals,” Jim said into the speaking tube, and Bob glanced over the side.
“Great pair,” he responded. “Not like the border at Texas.” He took a good look at the huge lake that stretched out restlessly between New York State and Vermont. “We could use that down our way.”
“Let’s send some of it to Dad. Remember how long it is?”
“One hundred and twenty-eight miles.”
“Bigger than the two ranches together.” They flew on until they were flying over the water, and Jim took the glasses to get a better view of the historic lake. He picked out Rouse’s Point, then on to the picturesque sections of land whose rocky coasts had defied the pounding waves. There was Isle La Motte, with it’s farms at one end and long wooded stretch at the other where the Fenton’s kept their turkeys. Beyond, united by a long bridge was North Hero Island, cut up into small homesteads. There were acres of uncultivated land which was now blue and yellow with flowers, groves of cedar, elm and ash, to say nothing of delicate green spots that the boys knew were gardens or meadows. Further on was Grand Isle, also connected by a bridge, but they were not going that far.