“She looks as if she might do a mile or so an hour—with the current. Is it your joke, Doctor?”
“I hired her from a country youth after scouring the country. If you choose to join the mockers, do so. I stand by the Swan, Harry, I’m afraid it’s going to be a job to drag the boys off this yacht, but it’s got to be done. Your friend Mr. Danforth is great!”
“They’re moving to Oakwood this Fall.”
“So I hear—that’s fine. Well, my boy, you’d better be off for your joy ride.”
It was hard for Harry to say good-by to his genial host and the party on the yacht, but he made the rounds of the cordial group, promising to see them in the Fall—at least, the Danforths and Miss Crosby, who told him that she would surely be in Oakwood to see little Pen win the aero contest.
With many expressions of good-will from Mr. Danforth, and a good deal of mock deference from the troop, he got into the little boat and was rowed ashore. The man in the greasy overalls led the way to a spacious green near by, around which a rope fence had been stretched. The enclosure was already lined with people. Others, more anxious to witness the flight than to examine the machine, were comfortably seated on rocks or sprawled on the grass outside. The man’s greasy overalls acted as a password, and the crowd opened to let him cross the rope with Harry.
“That’s the fellow,” said some one, alluding to Harry, who gave no heed to the comments on himself, for his interest was fixed on the center of the field, where a perfect whirlpool of dust was rising, almost entirely obscuring the aeroplane.
“They’re trying out the motor,” the man explained.
“Jiminy!” said Harry. “She goes some, doesn’t she?”
“Four hundred and seventy turns a minute,” said the man.