"Can't," said the pilot. "About ten minutes ago the major sent word he wanted to see me at once. If I don't get a move on I will catch it." He started off in a hurry.
"Come on, Fanshaw," said the pilot, turning to the instructor.
"Not me," was the reply. "I have a swat of work. There is ballast for you, though, over there by the shed." Bob Haines was the ballast indicated. He was putting the final touches on an aeroplane propellor to which he had administered a coat of varnish.
"What lot?" queried the pilot.
"Bunch of young fellows from about here. Sort of volunteers. Idea of the colonel's, I think. Nice lot of boys. Young, but getting on fast. I have seen one of them, a French boy, quite a bit lately, and if they are all as good at locating engine trouble as he is they will go far in this game before they are old men. Ask the tall youngster. He will be tickled to death. I don't suppose he has been up before, but he will be a good passenger. Be careful and don't scare him. Don't try any stunts. Shall I sing out to him?"
"I guess so. I don't much care who it is so long as he weighs up to average, and that fellow looks pretty husky."
"Here, young fellow! You are needed here for a minute," called out
Fanshaw.
Bob trotted over to the plane at once.
"What were you at?" asked the instructor.
"Varnishing," replied Bob. "Just finished."