“In war and peace, in commerce and pleasure, from the Pole to the tropics, these human birds will darken the air on pinions swifter than the eagle’s wing. The snow-crested peaks of the Himalayas, the deepest recesses of the tropic wilderness, the uncharted main and the untrodden ice of the hidden Poles will unroll before the daring aviator like the—like—the—”
“The pictured pleasures of the panorama,” continued his mother, pointing to the underscored page of the “History of Aeroplanes” which she had been holding during Morey’s discourse.
“Yes,” said Morey, blushing, and then recovering himself. “Anyway, that’s my plan of a career. I’m going to be an ‘aviator’. And I’m going to begin at the bottom. I’m going to start by making an aeroplane right here—out in the old carpenter shop.”
“Mortimer, I suppose I am just a little behind the times. Is this a desirable thing?”
“Beats the world.”
“Have you been studying this at school?”
“’Taint in the course, but everybody’s studying it.”
“When did you interest yourself in such a peculiar subject?”
“Oh, ages ago—long before Christmas,” answered Morey. “I’ve read all the books in the public library at Richmond and all the magazines, and I’ve got all the circulars I could find. All I want now is a set of tools and some spruce lumber and some silk and an engine—I can do it. Needn’t fear I can’t.”