Bob’s opinion of the boy had sunk lower and lower. He saw that they weren’t going to get on at all. Why, the boy was nothing but a mollycoddle, and not much fun. “What do you do for fun?” he asked, curiously.
“Oh, I read a lot,” said Hal, picking up the book in his lap.
Bob’s mind was now more firmly made up. A fellow who spent all his time reading was no fun at all. And he needn’t think that Bob was going to encourage any friendship, either. “What’s the book?” he asked.
“A biography,” said Hal.
“Biography!” thought Bob, but he looked at the title. It was a life of Admiral Byrd.
Bob’s eyes lighted up. “Oh, say,” he said, “is that good?”
“It’s great,” said Hal. “You know, I read every book on aviators that comes out. I’ve always wanted to be one—an aviator, you know.”
Bob sat up and took notice. “Gee, you have? Why, so have I. My Uncle Bill’s an aviator. You ought to know him. He was in the war. Joined when he was just eighteen. I’m going to be an aviator, too.”
“You are? Have you ever been up?”
“No,” said Bob, “but I’m going some day. Bill’s going to teach me how to pilot a plane. He’s promised. He’s coming to visit us some time and bring his own plane. Dad takes me out to the airport whenever he can, and we watch the planes. I’ve never had a chance to go up, though.”