“Are you certain that engine’s all right?”
“Sure,” shouted the boy; “why not? And I’ll make the tail rudder! Hurrah!”
The captain laid his hand on Andy’s arm.
“Don’t get excited. I don’t want to do anything your mother might not like—”
“You leave that to me,” said the boy. “She’ll agree—in the end.”
But it looked as if Andy might have a pretty hard time placating his parent, judging by his reception. Mrs. Leighton was genuinely alarmed, but supper being ready and it being apparent to the eye that her son was uninjured by alligators, her pent-up lecture gradually lessened into a mild criticism. When the boy, with clean face and plastered hair, joined the others at the table, Mrs. Leighton postponed further admonition.
Mrs. Anderson’s Indian River oysters baked in the shell were sufficient to put everyone in a good humor. To Andy’s great relief, his mother announced that she had devoted the afternoon to writing letters: one to Mr. Leighton; another to the bank in Melbourne, in relation to her late brother’s affairs; and a third to a man in the same town who, her host had informed her, was a possible purchaser.
“Until I hear from your father,” she informed her son, “we will do nothing.”
Andy nodded approvingly, but there was much secret joy that he did not have to return at once; that he was free, for a time, to get his great project under way. The next thing was to acquaint his mother with the aeroplane idea and to work himself into the scheme without arousing his mother’s objection. As he ate, his brain was busy with a dozen ideas. They were rejected one after another, because each called for deception.