“How fast will that send her?” Harry asked.
“Forty miles an hour against a brisk wind.”
“How fast do you suppose that would send a small boat?”
“Now you’ve got me—they don’t have to figure so much for slip in the water. Water’s a dense medium; but the air’s thin; you’ve got to remember that. You interested in air work?”
“Why, yes,” said Harry, “but I’m not very well posted. What’s the pitch of a propeller, anyway?”
“That’s its angle—you can’t get two aviators to agree about that. Mr. Goodwin uses an eight-foot fan. You see, if we got the full benefit of those four hundred and seventy turns we could make a streak of lightning look like a snail, but you understand it’s like walking up a treadmill,—you’ve got to walk like the mischief to keep ahead of the game. Mr. Goodwin saw you win that race. Well, here we are.”
It surprised Harry a little to hear this grimy-faced, besmirched, greasy young man talk so intelligently. But the experience is not uncommon for those who interest themselves in aviation. A machinist or electrician who lays down his ordinary work to devote his skill to the conquest of the air, usually does so by reason of an ardent love of the science; and there is not a more scientific and competent set of mechanics than those who have attached themselves to successful aviators.
Goodwin, an active little man, with keen black eyes, came forward from the little group surrounding the machine to welcome Harry.
“Ah,” said he, “that was a splendid race. I congratulate you. It occurred to me that you might like to go up with me—eh?”
“Indeed, I should,” said Harry. “It was good of you to ask me.”