“All you boys need,” broke in Major Packard, “is a polishing bit of instruction in military reconnaissance, and you would be a handy aid for the service.”
“While I am only factory broke, Major,” modestly asserted Billy, “Henri there can draw a pretty good map on the wing, if that counts for anything, and do the radio reporting as good as the next. What a fellow he is, too, with an engine; he can tell by the cough in three seconds just where the trouble is. If I was going into the scout business, believe me, I might be able to make a hit by dropping information slips through the card chute.”
The dark-eyed, slender Henri shook a finger at his talkative comrade.
“Spare me, old boy, if you please,” he pleaded. “Gentlemen,” turning to the others, who were watching the housing of the aëroplane, “this bluffer wouldn’t even speak to me when the altitude meter, a little while ago, registered 3,000 feet. Then he had a wheel in his hands; down here he has it in his head!”
“Bully for you, comrade,” cried Billy. “I couldn’t have come back that neatly if I tried. But then, you know, I have to work to live, and you only live to work.”
With this happy exchange the boys moved double quick in the direction of quarters and the mess table.
Colonel McCready, with the others proceeding to leisurely follow the eager food seekers, in his own peculiar style went on to say:
“There’s a couple of youngsters who have been riding a buckboard through some fifty miles of space, several thousand feet from nowhere, at a clip that would razzle-dazzle an eagle, and, by my soul, they act like they had just returned from a croquet tournament!”
Our Aviator Boys had grown fearless as air riders. They had learned just what to do in cases of emergency, in fact were trained to the hour in cross-country flying. Rare opportunity, however, was soon to present itself to give them a supreme test of courage and skill.
Little they reckoned, this June evening down by the Alamo, what the near future held in store for them.