“It seems that Lindy was born to be a pilot. He’s built for one, in the first place. Long and rangy, and slim. No extra weight, but plenty of muscle and endurance. He’s got a lot of nerve and never gets excited He showed that when he got himself elected to the Caterpillar Club. But I’ll get to that later.” Here Bob paused, and looked up at the sun, which was just slipping a little westward. “Say,” he said. “Would you folks mind if I continued my story later? I feel just a little empty. How about the food?”
“I’ve been thinking that for a long time,” said the Captain. “But rules are rules. I didn’t want to interrupt you.”
Bob snorted. “Say, for food you can interrupt me any time. Let’s go.”
He jumped up, stretched himself, and made for the car, to get out the huge hamper of lunch. “Say,” he called back, “Lindy may have been satisfied with five sandwiches all the way to Paris, but darned if I couldn’t eat five right now.” He carried the hamper over to the knoll where the others were. They were all standing now, limbering up, stretching, sniffing the good air, and looking eagerly toward the food.
“Here, lend a hand,” said Bob. He plumped down the basket so that they could hear the rattle of forks and tin cups within, and sat down beside it.
“You’re the host,” said Hal, seating himself comfortably on the grass and looking on. “It’s your party. We have to listen to your story, so the least you can do is feed us.”
Bob had opened the hamper, and was viewing its contents eagerly. He dived into the basket. “Say, anybody who doesn’t help himself, doesn’t eat. Fall to.”
They fell to, doing much eating but little talking. Finally Bob sat back, a sandwich in one hand, a cup of steaming coffee out of the thermos bottle in the other. “I have a suspicion,” he said, “that you don’t like my story.”
“Don’t get ideas like that, Bob, my lad,” said Pat. “We love your story. We just like sandwiches better.”
“All right, then I won’t finish,” said Bob. “I’m going to be independent.”