“Oh, you famous boy—Andy, my lad, it’s the proudest moment of my life!”
Mr. Morse caught Andy’s hand, his serious face flushed with pride.
“The Racing Star did it,” said Andy.
“Yo’ did it, chile, and yo’ did it brown,” chimed in Scipio, his mouth expanded in joyous delight from ear to ear.
John Parks never let go of Andy’s arm as they made their way through the crowds to the main aerodrome stand. The official starter had unscrewed the speedometer and elevation gauge. He ran before them to the stand. Someone quickly chalked a legend on the big, bare blackboard. It ran:
Start of flight—10:04.
Finish—11:39.
Distance traveled—60 miles.
Maximum height—1,200 feet.
Wind velocity—12 miles from the west.
Winner—Racing Star.
Operator—Andy Nelson.
Somehow the boy aviator thrilled as he read his name at the bottom of the little legend.
“It’s like a dream, Mr. Parks—just like a dream,” and his voice was faint and dreamy in itself.
“Don’t collapse, lad,” directed the aeronaut anxiously—“the best is to come.”
“It’s only the reaction,” said Andy. “To think I did it—me, only Andy!”