“No, I have noticed him practicing at a distance, and thought he did pretty well.”
“There he goes now.”
“Eh, that boy?” exclaimed Ben, with a stare. “Oh, I know him by sight. Why that is Dick Farrell. He’s a cousin of Dave Shallock.”
“You mean the fellow you had some trouble with, the son of the engineer who was discharged from the Saxton Automobile Works.”
“Yes,” assented Ben, with a lively memory of the fellow on the fence the night he had last met Dave Shallock.
“You told me about him,” said Bob. “Look out for this fellow, if he’s like that ill-natured cousin of his.”
Now, just as the various bird-men about the field were preparing for practice ascents and stunts, Rollins, after his unsatisfactory query from Mr. Davis, stood glumly watching Ben and Bob who had got aboard the machine.
“Let her go!” shouted Ben, and Mr. Davis lent a hand in sending the wheels spinning, and then at the end of a little run the Flyer made a graceful lateral soar, and struck a fair equilibrium about two hundred and fifty feet from the ground.
Bob was strapped to the operator’s seat, hands, feet and eyes doing just the right thing at the right moment. Ben sat three feet behind him, slightly to one side. The machine was constructed to accommodate several passengers and was delicately framed as to nicety of balance.
“Got the bag all right, Ben?” shot back Bob, as the monoplane, after describing a dizzying circle that made Ben hold his breath, turned its planes upward and shot into the air to a still higher level.