“Let me see the engine,” was the youthful aviator’s answer.
Here was something Andy understood. Almost before Roy Osborne reached the delicate motor, Andy had primed it, set his ignition, and, much to his relief, had the cylinders softly singing with the unbroken purr of the perfect engine.
The sight of the aeroplane had not moved the new arrival. But at the sound of the engine, he sprang forward, and then stood amazed. The next instant, his hands, big and sinewy for his age, were on the cylinders as if caressing them. His eyes glistened. Then his strong hands caught one end of the throbbing mechanism and raised it partly from the floor.
“Have you got the patterns for that?” he exclaimed quickly.
“There are none,” answered Andy. “My uncle made it—he’s dead.”
Osborne stopped and started the engine.
“I’ll give $10,000 for it and the right to make it,” he added, after another moment.
Andy gasped; even Captain Anderson’s mouth dropped open.
“How—how about the new rudder,” Andy managed to say, at last.