That day passed uneventfully. The dawn of the second day found Curlie once more in the air. He was headed south.
All the glories of the great white wilderness lay beneath him. The glory of the perfect day, sky filled with drifting clouds, air with a tang all its own. But none of these things held the boy’s attention.
His thoughts were divided between his immediate task, the piloting of his plane, and that which lay in the immediate past and the probable future.
At Resolution he had met Speed Samson, his rival. Great had been the other pilot’s astonishment when told of Curlie’s adventure with the “Gray Streak.”
“So it’s true after all!” Speed had exclaimed. “There is a plane running wild in this wilderness. The pilot’s living off other men’s food caches, like as not, and using others’ gas.”
“Yes,” Curlie replied. “What are we going to do about it?”
“Wait for orders.”
“Yes, I suppose so,” the boy agreed slowly. By nature he was a person of action. “But suppose we come upon that ‘Gray Streak’ before orders reach us?”
“Pass ’em up. Let ’em go. That’s me. My record, the record of my company, the mail contract’s at stake.
“And,” he added, meaning to be truly generous, “much as I want to win that award for our company, I’d advise you to do the same.”