“I’ll start when it is half full,” announced Jack in a sober voice.
“How’s the pressure?” inquired Tom, whose face was pale.
“Fine; a trifle over five hundred pounds. We’ll fill quickly on that.”
In the rear seat, which might be likened to the tonneau of an auto, sat Mr. Chadwick. Not a trace of emotion was visible on his strong features. Through his spectacles he eyed the boys’ preparations with interest. It was by no means his first trip in the Flying Road Racer, as he still called it, and he knew that the boys thoroughly understood her management. Therefore he did not embarrass them with questions or suggestions.
“That’s enough,” announced Jack presently, when the bag was almost full, “that will lift us and I’ll fill out the wrinkles while we are in the air.”
“You’re going up first, then?”
“Of course. That will give you a chance to get over your ‘rattles’ before we drop.”
“Rot!” vociferated Tom indignantly. “I’m not rattled a bit.”
But his shaking hands and shining eyes belied his words. If not “rattled,” Tom was considerably excited. Jack, on the other hand, although his pulses were throbbing uncomfortably fast and a large lump appeared to have clambered into his throat and stuck there, was outwardly as cool as ice.
“Ready, Dad! I’m going to start! Hold tight!”