Steve sensed that the last warning was entirely for his sole consumption.
With a sickening self-assuredness, he left the line and strutted nonchalantly over to the first plane, stepping on the wing and climbing into the cockpit.
Panama followed the man with his eyes and as Steve adjusted his Gasborne helmet, the sergeant issued the word to “give her the gun.”
Every man’s eyes followed the course of Steve’s plane as she taxied down the field, making a careless and sloppy take-off.
“Do you see what he did?” Panama roared angrily, turning to Lefty and pointing after Steve’s rising plane. “He forgot everything I told him. The lame-brained son of a half-wit tries to take off before he gets flying speed. Now when he comes down, you take your hop, and don’t make the same mistake!”
All eyes, including the nervous boy’s, peered heavenward, watching Steve circle as a mechanic came running across the field to where Lefty was standing.
“Your name Phelps!” the mechanic asked, holding out a piece of folded white note paper.
Lefty nodded and, taking the note from the man, opened it hurriedly, instantly recognizing Elinor’s handwriting.
“I am rooting for you. Good luck!” she had scribbled across the paper.
Lefty smiled confidently as he placed the note carefully away in the breast pocket of his regulation windjammer. A strong feeling of self-confidence arose within him, stifling his anxiety and nervous tension.