"Foiled again, villain!" declaimed Helen.
"Now, then, I'll race you to the beach," cried Roger as soon as dinner was over, and off they went, regardless of Grandmother Emerson's anxieties about the shock to their digestions.
After all, the hangar proved to be not much to see. There was a large tent to house the machine and there was a small tent for a dressing-room for the aviator and another to serve as a sleeping tent for his machinists who were also to act as watchmen against damage from a sudden storm or a heavy wind coming up in the night, or the too curious fingers of the inquisitive during the day.
The tents were entirely unremarkable, but drays were hauling from the freight station big boxes that contained the parts of the wonderful machine, and a rapidly increasing crowd stood about while their tops were unscrewed and the contents examined. A man who was directing the workers was proven to be the airman when some one called his name—Graham.
"It won't be assembled before to-morrow afternoon, I suspect," he had answered. "Then I'll try it out carefully. A man bird can't take any chances with his wings, you know."
"I'd like to ask him if he's going to take passengers," whispered Ethel Brown, and Roger was so eager to find out that fact himself that he worked his way nearer and nearer to Mr. Graham when he heard some one put the question.
"It depends," answered that young man diplomatically. "If the machine works well I may do it. Or I may make only exhibition flights. I shan't know for a day or two."
"What'th it'th name?" asked Dicky, who had heard so much talk about birds that he thought Mr. Graham was bringing to light some bird pet.
"Its name?" repeated the aviator. "It hasn't a name, kid. It ought to have one, though," he went on thoughtfully. "You couldn't suggest one, could you?"