Hal Dane would fly a real plane—make real money. His vision traveled fast. Mother should have everything. No more bending over “taken-in” sewing with weariness pains lacing her bent back and lines deepening in her face. Uncle Tel should have all the pipes, all the books he wanted. They’d do over the old house, renovate it back to its former two-storied elegance, paint, flowers—he’d—the dream circled back on itself and began all over again at airships, Hal Dane aviator!
Hal slid down off the saw bench. He’d write the letter to Rand-Elwin—now.
That same day’s mail carried Hal’s letter to the Flying School, a fervid boyish epistle stating how enthusiastically hard he’d work if they would only give him the chance. Pinned to it was Raynor’s all-important scribble.
A week’s space brought the answer. It was a business-like typed sheet signed by the Mr. Rand of the Rand-Elwin.
Crowded as they were with pay students, it was out of the ordinary, he wrote, for them to take one to work out his tuition expenses. But the written recommendation from Mr. Raynor (one of their former men), also a personal visit from him pertaining to this matter in hand, had inclined the school to change its policy in this case. Work would be found for him in the hangars or in the corps of mechanicians. He could expect no money pay for this, of course, but instead would receive the much greater pay of free tuition, board and lodging at the barracks. From Raynor’s recommendation, they were expecting great work from him, an interesting flying future—
Hal’s eyes traveled back from the pleasant prophecy that closed the communication,—traveled back and riveted upon “no money pay.”
It had been foolish of him, of course, but somehow he had never figured at all that there would be “no money pay.” He had rosily visioned himself as pulling down some neat sum for his probable labors at sweeping hangars, trundling grease cans, blocking and unblocking plane wheels. Half of this money would have gone to pay flying-tuition, most of the other half would have gone to the folks back home. In his visioning he had slept in some corner of a hangar, had eaten any old fare.
But now, no money coming in at all, that was different! The vision seemed closing up, drifting away. Mother and Uncle Tel had to eat. He hadn’t earned much, but he had earned something, enough to keep their little household going, anyway.
He’d have to stick at this truck job that paid even a pittance of real money—give up this flying vision, this Rand-Elwin offer.
Oh, but how could he? This, his first real chance! In reality it was a full generous thing the Rand-Elwin people were willing to do. They were offering lodging, board and something like a thousand dollars in tuition in exchange for the part-time work of an unknown boy. Only the recommendation of a valuable man like Raynor could have secured him this.