“Look who it is! That’s right what he’s telling you, he’s got—what you call it—wing sense.” Like a small chipper tornado, Harry Nevin, newspaperman, ploughed up from the rear of the group. “Hey, don’t you folks remember? This is the kid that got his picture in the Star! Went up with Raynor and brought down Raynor’s machine for him, and all that!”
“Oh, so you know about flying, and running sky busses,” stated the aviator with relief.
“I know about flying—but, well, not so much about real planes,” admitted Hal, honestly.
“He’s sailed all over the country on a glider he made himself,” broke in the reporter. “He knows more about balance in a minute than most—”
“Have it your own way,” burst out the aviator irritably. “Since you’re all so set on letting this kid do your stunting, I’ll take him up. But the responsibility’s on your heads, not mine. And say, you all better clear out and let us get to work. He ain’t got but an hour to be taught all there is to this here stunting business.”
While the crowd was departing, some over, some crawling under the three-strand wire fence, the aviator busied himself with peering into the vitals of his ship. Soon though, he raised up, and stalked over to the boy.
“I’m Maben, Max Maben,” he said.
“I’m Hal Dane.” The boy stuck out his hand and the older man grasped it in a quick strong motion.
“Say, what makes you willing to go up in a strange plane, with a strange flyer, and tackle a lot of stuff you don’t know anything about?”
“Got it in the blood, I reckon, this being crazy about wanting to get mixed up in anything that’ll keep me near an airship,” mumbled Hal. “Anyway, I’d been studying your plane. It looked right to me; I liked its jib,” Hal grinned. “Then you came along, and I—well, I reckon I liked your jib, too.”