After the crash where, in that last downward swoop, he had evidently pulled the wrong mechanism and tipped the plane to a dangerous turn, an obsession of distrust had oppressed him. He had begun to fear that he lacked air sense, was not fitted for the fulfilment of his dreams of wings and the airways.
And now with one lift of his brows, a wave of the hand, Rex Raynor had dispelled the gloom. What was it Raynor had said—“Wing sense—born in him!”
Hal flung himself through the front door and down the steps so excitedly that he near toppled over his red-headed friend Fuz McGinnis, who was rushing up the steps.
“What do you think you are—a Wright Whirlwind Motor?” Fuz fiercely rubbed a barked shin. “Here I was thinking you an invalid, and hopped by to say I’d take the Yellow Spider and tow in the truck from the pine woods for you.”
“Don’t believe my famous vehicle needs any towing-in,” answered Hal, “but I’ll be thankful to have you haul my carcass and these tools out there, and apply some of your manly strength to helping me jack the old bus up.” And linking arms with Fuz, Hal strode off toward the yellow roadster.
For Rex Raynor, his week’s stay in the shabby old Dane home was a period of mixed pain and pleasure. At first his arm wound throbbed irritatingly, and added to it was the anxiety for the condition of his crashed plane. But these pleasant, kindly people among whom Fate had dropped him were an interesting compensation.
There was Mother Mary Dane. She was a little woman with blue eyes and lots of soft brown hair that was usually wound into a firm, tight knot, because there was never any time to primp it up and do it fluffily. When the fever pains let the aviator up from his bed and allowed him the run of the place, he marveled at the amount of work a slip of a woman like Mary Dane could “turn off.” He seemed to find her always churning, or stooped over everlasting “taken-in” sewing, or on her knees with garden trowel in her hand. Her mouth would be a stubborn line combating the weariness of her eyes, offsetting the whiteness of her face—only folks didn’t often catch her like that. When she saw Raynor or Hal or Uncle Tel coming, she could usually produce a smile.
When the sun shone warm and bright, from a big room at the end of the hall would arise snatches of quavery whistling, thump of hammering. That would be Uncle Telemachus Harrison enjoying a “good day.” Uncle Tel was Hal’s great-uncle. When the sunshine eased his rheumatism, he pounded away at chair repairing and odd jobs to help along with the very limited family exchequer. Uncle Tel Harrison was a curiosity—a fiery little man with bright blue eyes and a bristling, bushy mustache.
As great a curiosity as Uncle Tel was the old house. Hal’s mother was a Harrison and had inherited the ancient dwelling from her people.
The Harrison house had been two-storied. Then the roof fell in. Hal and Uncle Tel, with very little outside help, had cobbled up some sort of roof over the remaining lower story. In the bleakness of winter, the makeshift, curling shingles and the warped walls must have looked their pitifulness. But now in the summer, when the cudzu vine was in its swathing glory, the old cobbled-up house looked rather quaint and cool under its dress of vines.