“She’s an Antoinette, but we call her Auntie ’cause it’s quicker. She’s a near and dear relative. See?” explained Jack Twinkleton. “She has a history, too. You’d never guess who used to own her, so I’ll tell you. You’ve heard of Emile Voissard, haven’t you?”
“Well, rather!” exclaimed Bob. “He’s the wonderman they call the ‘Flying Terror of France.’ I’ve seen a lot of pictures of him. He’s done great work in the air for the Allies. Never expected to meet anyone who knew him, though.” Bob’s features registered profound admiration.
“He’s a cousin of ours,” proudly informed Jerry. “Our mother was a Voissard. We’re half French and the rest English. This plane is a back number. Emile was over here with it before the war began, giving exhibition flights. We lived in California then. He used it a lot out there. About the time he got ready to throw it on the scrap heap we made him give it to us. The engine was on the blink, etc., and he said it was a safe proposition for us, because we’d never be able to do more than run it over the ground. We tinkered at the engine a long while, but we finally made her go, and Auntie’s been using her wings more or less ever since.”
“We only came east last July. We were in Stanford University,” chimed in Jack. “We’re a pair of ‘orfin’ twins. Used to spend our summers with an aunt in California, but she couldn’t stand us after we got the flying habit. We got on her nerves. So she shipped us and Auntie out here to an uncle of ours. It suited us, though. He has a fine country place. He’s a chemist and spends most of his time hanging out in his laboratory. Doesn’t care much what we do as long as we let him alone. He’s a sort of hermit and sticks off by himself. Now, come on. Jerry and I’ll show you around. Guess you’ve heard enough about us.”
With this the Twinkle Twins conducted a most willing trio about and up into the aeroplane, keeping up a running fire of explanation as they pointed out its parts and their uses. From the well-patched taut canvas wings to the once almost useless engine, which they had successfully repaired, they had demonstrated a skill and ingenuity that aroused the Khaki Boys to enthusiastic admiration. They were in the midst of a most interesting experience, consequently they asked questions to the stage of being ashamed to quiz further these affable new acquaintances.
“It’s risky when your engine stops all of a sudden. Is that what happened to you this afternoon?” Jimmy ventured a last query.
“Yep,” nodded Jack. “When Auntie gets balky then we have to do some volplaning. Take a quick slide down, you know. She’s all right; got a fine stability. Oh, fine! Except in banking or running across the wind. Sometimes wish she was a Bleriot. Then again, I don’t.”
“We love our Auntie, but oh, you dihedral angle!” put in Jerry fervently.
His tone made his listeners smile, though none of them had the slightest idea of what he was talking about. Jack immediately following his brother’s remarks with a further account of their flight and descent that afternoon, the Khaki Boys forebore inquiring into the nature of that mystifying term “dihedral angle.”