“What’s wrong with it?” the young pilot demanded.
“Can’t quite tell,” Mark puckered his brow.
“Ever fly?” The pilot looked at him sharply.
“No-o. But then your motor’s just like the ones we had in some speedboats back in the Copper Country. I tinkered with them. You get to know by the sound,” Mark replied modestly.
“Want to turn her over once or twice?” the pilot invited.
“Sure. Be glad to.”
Two hours later grim, greasy, but triumphant, Mark emerged from the plane. He had located the trouble and had remedied it.
“Say-ee, you’re good!” the pilot was enthusiastic. “Want to go along as my mechanic? Grand trip! Shoot goats, bears, moose, and—”
“Can’t get away just now,” said Mark quietly. “Thanks all the same.”
Just the same, there was a look of longing in his eye that Florence knew all too well. He had two passions, had Mark. He loved growing things and wonderful machinery. Growing was over for this year. Dull, dreary days of autumn were at hand. For him, to spend two weeks or even a month watching over that matchless motor would be bliss.