“Well,” said Frank Bird, with one of his rare smiles that always made him friends wherever he went, “I had a pretty good idea it would end that way, when I heard how the trustees failed to find any building in town that would answer to house the high school pupils. Yes, I’m glad for some things, and sorry for others. But it’ll give the Bird boys a chance to do a little more flying before winter sets in and stops all that fun.”
Frank and his cousin Andy had become quite famous throughout the region around Bloomsbury, a town in Central New York, on account of the wonderful success they had made of aviation.
Indeed, some of the doings of the Bird Boys, as they were called, had even found their way into the columns of the big metropolitan papers, and among professional birdmen they were looked upon as most promising “comers.”
Back of Frank’s house—where he lived with his father, Professor Bird, once a noted balloonist and scientist, together with an old gentleman who had served as guardian to Frank when his father was believed to have perished on one of his long flights while exploring parts of the Panama Isthmus—in a field some distance in the rear of his house there had been built a fine workshop, where the two boys spent most of their time when not in the air.
Already they had invented quite a few ingenious contrivances which gave promise that some day their names would figure along with those that have made aviation in heavier-than-air machines what it is today—those of the Wright brothers.
Close to this workshop was the great “hangar” in which they kept their aeroplane when it was not in use; and since enemies had frequently tried to injure their property these buildings were not only securely locked but as a rule watched of nights.
To tell even a small portion of the doings of these bold cousins when navigating the air would consume too much space and time; and the reader who has been unfortunate enough not to have enjoyed their perusal is referred back to the previous volumes in this Series, where they will be found recorded at length, and the story told in an entertaining manner.
The third member of the little group taking it easy under the wide spreading beech tree, with its thick branches, was one Larry Geohegan, a firm friend of the Bird boys; whose only fault was the envy he often felt because he could never accompany either of his flying chums aloft, being afflicted with a weakness that made him dizzy whenever he looked down from any height.
Elephant had met the other two quite by accident on the road, and stopped to communicate the grand news, which he had heard his father tell at the breakfast table.
Apparently the other two lads were going fishing, for they had poles and bait cans lying on the ground. There was a beautiful lake named Sunrise, upon which the town lay; and a mile away a stream ran into this which could always be depended upon to furnish a splendid string of bass, chubs, sunfish and horned pouts or catfish, when the wind was favorable, as happened on this lovely morning. “What were you waiting here for under this tree; did you expect Andy to show up?” asked Elephant after he had declared his intention of joining the fishing party, and cutting a pole when he got on the grounds.