“Undoubtedly.”
“Hum,” said Billy, in a way he had when he had arrived at any important conclusion.
In the moonlight the party walked down to where the Golden Eagle lay under her extemporized garage, or rather aerodrome. Even Señora Ruiz forgot for a second her deep sorrow as she gazed at the beautiful creation, its graceful wings shimmered and silvered by the brilliant moonlight.
“Oh, Señors,” she cried, “you built this wonderful fly thing all yourselves?”
When their father had replied for the blushing Frank and Harry in the affirmative, the Spanish woman clasped her hands impulsively.
“But you are—oh, pardon me—but you are so young—chico, is it not so?”
“I take it that ‘chico’ is Spanish for ‘kids,’” remarked the irrepressible Billy sotto voce to Harry. What the latter might have replied to this, however, was cut short by a startling thing that occurred at that moment.
Frank who had been bending over the engine had given a loud exclamation.
“Harry—father—Billy, come here quick!” he exclaimed excitedly.
They ran toward him.