Stephen Kane had scarcely slept a wink for three nights. When Orissa came home Thursday evening he met her at the car with the news that his aëroplane was complete.
“I’ve been adjusting it and testing the working parts all the afternoon,” he said, his voice tense with effort to restrain his excitement, “and I’m ready for the trial whenever you say.”
“All right, Steve,” she replied briskly; “it begins to be daylight at about half past four, this time of year; shall we make the trial at that hour to-morrow morning?”
“I couldn’t wait longer than that,” he admitted, pressing her arm as they walked along. “My idea is to take it into old Marston’s pasture.”
“Isn’t the bull there?” she inquired.
“Not now. Marston has kept the bull shut up the past few days. And it’s the best place for the trial, for there’s lots of room.”
“Let’s take a look at it, Steve!” she said, hastening her steps.
In the big, canvas covered shed reposed the aëroplane, its spreading white sails filling the place almost to the very edges. It was neither a monoplane nor a biplane, according to accepted ideas of such machines, but was what Steve called “a story-and-a-half flyer.”
“That is, I hope it’s a flyer,” he amended, while Orissa stared with admiring eyes, although she already knew every stick and stitch by heart.
“Of course it’s a flyer!” she exclaimed. “I wouldn’t be afraid to mount to the moon in that airship.”