“Would you like to stroll over to the big aero practice field, Andy?”
“I should, indeed,” responded Andy.
He found the aviation field to be a more or less shrouded locality. It was reached only by crossing myriad railroad tracks, dodging oft-shunted freight-cars, scaling embankments and crossing ditches. The field was dotted with shelter tents for the various air machines, trial chutes and perfecting shops.
There were any number of monoplanes, biplanes and dirigible balloons. On the different tents was painted the name of the machine housed therein. There was the Montgo, Glider, the Flying Dutchman, the Lady Killer, and numerous other novelties with fanciful names.
“Every professional seems to be getting up the oddest freak he can think of,” explained Parks. “Do you see that new-fangled affair with the round discs? That is called the helicopotol. That two-winged, one-hundred-bladed freak just beyond is the gyropter. Watch that fellow just going up with the tandem rig. That’s a new thing, too. It’s of the collapsible type, made for quick transportation, but not worth a cent as a racer.”
Andy was in a realm of rare delight. He passed the happiest and most interesting hour of his life looking over and studying all these wonderful aerial marvels about him.
When they got back to camp, the aeronaut showed Andy where he would sleep, and told him something about the routine.
“I am making test runs with the Eagle,” he explained, “and will want you to sail with me for a day or two. Then you may try a grasshopper run or two yourself.”
“I shall like it immensely,” declared Andy with enthusiasm.
When Mr. Parks had left him, Andy wandered outside. The sound of a twanging banjo led him to the front of the kitchen quarters.