“We can wait,” said Bill, and settled back satisfied.
“From Mexico City,” went on Bob, grateful that his ordeal bad been put off, “Lindy flew off down to Central America. First he zig-zagged a bit to get in all of the little countries, and went from Guatemala City to Belize in British Honduras, and then back again to San Salvador, and from then on straight down the narrow isthmus to Teguci—Teguci—well, that place in Honduras.”
“Tegucigalpa,” said Pat.
“That’s it,” said Bob. “And from Teguci—and from there, he went on to Managua, and then to Costa Rica—San Jose. Now he was just about three hundred and twenty-five miles from the Panama Canal, as the crow flies—or rather, as Lindy flies, which is much better than any crow I’ve ever seen. He didn’t have any trouble making the flight, and say that they weren’t glad to see him down there, especially in the Canal Zone, where the Americans lived. They entertained him royally, and he went into the jungles of Panama for a hunting trip, which must have been great. They have all sorts of wild hogs, deer and pheasants, and it must have made grand hunting.
“But after all, Lindy couldn’t stay anyplace very long. South America was waiting for him. So he packed himself off, and flew to Cartagena, in Colombia, adding another continent to his list. From Cartagena he flew to Bogota, and then straight across the top of South America to the east coast. He stayed at Maracay, Venezuela. I never heard of it before, did any of you?” Bob paused dramatically for a reply.
There was only a dead silence for a second, and then, since none else spoke, Hal felt called upon to confess his ignorance, “I never did,” he said. “And gee, Bob, how do you remember all these places that Lindbergh stopped at? I never would in a hundred years.”
“Oh, it’s easy,” said Bob airily. He did not tell them of the long hours that he had spent memorizing the towns and cities that Lindbergh had stopped at in his good will tour, nor the hundreds of times that he had wished that Lindy had flown to some easy place like Canada, where the names were all pronounceable. But then, Lindy might have flown to Wales, and Bob, having seen Welsh names, thanked his lucky stars for such places as Tegucigalpa and Bogota. And now, having at least impressed Hal, he went on with renewed enthusiasm.
“Maracay,” he said, “was the jumping off place for the thousand-mile jump to the Virgin Islands. You see, Lindy was on his way back to the United States. He hopped from island to island in the Caribbean Sea, stopping at San Juan, Porto Rico; Santo Domingo; Port-au-Prince in Hayti; and then to Havana. From Havana he made the biggest hop of all, and landed smack in St. Louis without sitting down once along the way. He made some twelve hundred miles in about fifteen and a half hours.
“Somebody figured up how long he had flown, and how long he took for the whole ‘good will’ trip, and found out that he’d made sixteen flights to fifteen countries, and had gone 8,235 miles in one hundred and a half hours. Of course, that was actual flying time. The trip had taken him just two months, because he got back to St. Louis on February 13th, and he’d left Boiling Field at Washington on December 13th. But in those two months Lindy accomplished a great deal. He’d made friends with all the little countries down to our south, and with Mexico, too. They understood us better, and we got to understand them better. Gee, wouldn’t it be great if airplanes would make people friendlier? I mean, we’re so close to each other now, it seems as though we ought to know more about each other, and like each other better. I may not be saying that so well, but you fellows know what I mean, don’t you?”
“That’s a very good philosophy,” said Captain Bill, and Bob beamed as broadly as the moon that had risen over the trees and was shining over the little group in the garden. “Let’s hope that you’re right.”