The captain was on his feet in an instant, shaking his head.
“We should have thought of all this before we began and saved all our trouble and expense,” he exclaimed. “It’s too late to mend that, but it isn’t too late to prevent the boy breaking his neck. I don’t recommend that he turn aviator—I don’t even believe I’ll consent to it.”
Any hope that Andy had that his mother might approve of his undertaking to operate the car, was dead. The boy arose and left the room. He choked back a sob and wiped away a few tears that he could not suppress, and then walked far out on the pier and sat in the moonlight alone and sadder than he had ever been in his life.
When he finally entered the boathouse to go to bed, he found Captain Anderson already asleep. The boy wondered if his friend and co-worker did not feel something of the same disappointment. In the morning Andy was awakened by a noise in the shop, and he turned over to find Captain Anderson opening the big double doors.
“Turn out, youngster, and give me a hand. I want to get the car out so I can fasten on the rudder.”
“I suppose you’re goin’ to take a photograph of it,” said Andy, with a sad smile, “and then knock her to pieces. It would make a fine rack to dry clothes on—”
“I’m goin’ to test her out if it’s the last thing I do alive,” said the captain in a determined voice.
“You?” exclaimed Andy, rolling out of bed. “You? Not if I can stop you, you won’t. You’re sure to kill yourself.”
“What about you?” replied his companion.