“That’s the one.”
“It might get off the ground but I wouldn’t guarantee it would stay in the air. What do you want with that old crate?”
“Never mind that, Carl. How much do you want for it if we can get the motor to turn over fast enough to get into the air?”
Hunter whistled and scratched his ear reflectively. “About $200 the way she is, but I won’t promise a thing. You’ll have to take your chances.”
“Sold!” said Tim, “Carson said I could buy that war relic providing you didn’t try to hold me up. He’ll O.K. the bill when he comes back. Let’s get going.”
With Ralph and Hunter at his heels, he hurried toward hangar No. 3. There, in one corner of the big structure, was a venerable Jenny, a sister ship to the one Ralph had smashed on his first solo hop. Orders flew from Tim and Hunter and in less than fifteen minutes a crew of mechanics had gone over the old plane, filled its motor with gas and oil, and had it warming up in front of the hangar.
“Got any old canvas around?” Tim asked Hunter.
“There’s some in No. 2 hangar. How much do you need?”
“Just enough to cover the bottom of the fuselage of this ancient sky bird and make it water proof,” said Tim. Hunter hustled out to find the heavy fabric while Ralph hurried away in quest of a pot of shellac.
By the time the managing editor returned from the city with a new supply of serum and food, the Jenny was a queer looking bird. The bottom of the fuselage had been covered with heavy canvas and doused liberally with quick drying shellac to make it water-tight. The decrepit wings showed where new patches had been hurriedly slapped on and mechanics had completed emergency wiring of the wings to insure them from collapsing and sending Tim spinning down from the clouds with his plane out of control.