“Well,” answered his companion, slowly, “you can give me the book to-day. I’ll see what I can make out of it. But—” and he shook his head again.
Undaunted by the captain’s hesitation, Andy fell into argument. He began with the simplicity of the aeroplane mechanically, and insisted that, aside from the engine and propeller, it was even less complex than a bicycle.
“Why, every boy in the country’ll be makin’ ’em. You need only some light, strong wood and wires, and a few yards o’ varnished cloth, and there you are. I’d take the engine home and make one myself this summer, only I know mother wouldn’t let me.”
“Wouldn’t it be sort of underhanded for me to make it for you?”
“Make it for yourself!” stoutly urged the boy. “Think of it! I can see her now—sailin’ off over that white beach o’ yours like a—a—”
“Pelican,” suggested the captain. “That’s our bird down here.”
“Pelican—sure!” said Andy. “That’s a great name—Captain Anderson’s Pelican. And say,” he whispered, leaning forward, “if you’ll do it, so far as mother’s concerned, I’ll give my promise now never to try to fly in it until she says I can.”
“That seems fair enough,” said the man scratching his chin thoughtfully. After a few moments, a peculiar smile shone on his face. Then, very soberly, he said:
“Young man, did I understand you to say you understood something about gas engines?”