“Have it your own way,” Captain Anderson said. “I reckon your father and I can settle it between us when I see him.”
Four times on Monday did the Pelican make successful ascents. On the last one, at two o’clock, Andy made his first flight alone. So far as his anxious observers could see, his operation of the car was in no way different from that of young Osborne. At least, the moment Andy alighted, Roy slapped him on the back and said:
“I guess I’m not needed longer. You can teach someone else now.”
And, despite the regrets of his new friends, the young aviator boarded the night train for Lake Worth, each boy agreeing to write to the other, and Roy promising to send his latest pupil an aneroid barometer and an anemometer as soon as he reached Newark.
That night, as on the two previous nights, the strange Ba watched the new aeroplane. The next morning Captain Anderson suggested that the rudder, landing skis, and engine be detached and the frame and parts housed in the shop until the possible arrival of the motor expert from the north.
Andy entered a protest at once.
“I should say not,” he said; “that is, unless you insist. I want to make a real flight.”
“That’s why I want to take it apart,” confessed the captain frankly. “I knew you’d want to keep it up.”
“You’re not afraid of my breaking it, are you?” queried the boy.