By Jupiter's beard, we'll vanquish Attila and his savages. We'll prove ourselves worthy of being men and Romans.... The Red Knight? I vow, Mother, that his blood alone shall know the sting of the lance.... Don't worry, Dad. Those damned Japs and Germans won't lay a hand on me.... Watch me on TV, folks. Three touchdowns today—I promise!
The attendant's voice snapped him back to reality. "What you waiting for, kid? Get in!"
Tom's heart pounded. He felt the hot pulse of blood in his temples.
The Hornet lay beneath him like an open, waiting coffin.
He swayed.
"Hi, Tom!" a boyish voice called. "Bet I beat ya!"
Tom blinked and beheld a small-boned, tousled-haired lad of seventeen striding past the stall. What was his name? Miles. That was it. Larry Miles. A frosh at Western U.
A skinny, pimply-faced boy suddenly transformed into a black-garbed warrior. How could this be?
"Okay," Tom called, biting his lip.
He looked again at the Hornet. A giddiness returned to him.