“When the buzzer rings in here, Mr. Bolton, you will start idling your engines and take off as soon as possible immediately afterward. You know your course and you have instructions with regard to landing. Further orders will be sent to you should I consider them necessary.”
“I understand, sir,” said Bill.
Both young fellows saluted. The Baron returned their salutes and left the cockpit, sliding the door to behind him.
“Gosh!” exploded Osceola. “That lad gives me the jim-jams with his confounded bowing and saluting. I’ll turn into a Prussian Yunker myself if we don’t get out of this soon!”
“Reckon you weren’t cut out for a Naval man,” laughed Bill, “I admit I’ve had my fill of that stuff at the Academy, but the Herr Baron certainly goes the whole hog. Let’s see what kind of a crate I’ve got to run,” he mused—“ten motors—dual control—aeromarine inertia starter!”
He studied the layout thoughtfully and glanced at the instrument board. Then he turned to Osceola again.
“Thank heaven, they’ve fitted this bus with the wheel and column type of control. The clever bird has stolen some of the Fokker features. That worm gear, operated by a crank and shaft from the pilot’s seat to adjust the stabilizer in flight proves it.”
“Maybe,” grinned his friend. “That’s all Greek to me. The joke of it is that these bozos think I understand—that I’m an aviator like you!”
“Well, I’ve given you some pointers, haven’t I? You ought to recognize a few of these gadgets.”
The Chief snorted. “Few is right. Your amphibian is one thing—but this bus is fitted out like the engine room of an ocean liner!”