“You? What do you know about aeroplanes?”
“Nothing—that is, almost nothing. But I guess I know a little. You know I ran Mr. Greeley’s automobile nearly all summer. I understand motors. And—well, I do know something about aeroplanes. I tried to make one this summer.”
A look of sudden interest showed in the banker’s face.
“Oh, I remember now, you are the youngster that nearly broke his neck trying to fly.”
“I suppose Lafe Pennington told that,” answered Bud, looking up. “Well, I didn’t. I fell, but I lit on my feet, and I didn’t even harm my aeroplane.”
President Elder was looking over the big crates, and peering through the frames. Suddenly, he turned to Bud again.
“What do you mean by your aeroplane?”
“It wasn’t really an aeroplane. That is, I didn’t have an engine; but I made the wings; and I flew one hundred and fifty feet in them, too, out at Greeley’s gravel pit.”
“Then you know how an aeroplane is made?”
“I think I do. They are all pretty much alike. When I see this one, I’ll know a lot more.”