“This is the stable,” said the aeronaut, showing Andy how to get from his seat on the delicate and complicated apparatus of the flyer. “Dizzy-headed?”
“Why, no,” replied Andy.
“Wasn’t frightened a bit?”
“Not with you at the helm,” declared Andy. “Mister, if I could do that, I’d live up in the air all the time.”
“You only think so,” said the aeronaut, the smile of experience upon his practical but good-humored face. “When you’ve been at it as long as I have, you’ll feel different. What’s your name?”
“Andy Nelson.”
“Out of a job?”
“Yes, sir.”
The aeronaut looked Andy over critically,
“That little frame building at the end of the tent is where we keep house,” he explained. “The big rambling barracks, once a coal-shed, is my shop. I’m John Parks. Ever hear of me?”