“Fooled myself!” he exclaimed.
The plane that loomed out from the snow-fog for a space of seconds, only to lose itself again, was not gray. It was blue, with streaks of white. It bore on its wings the letters E F—R A C.
“Speed Samson,” he murmured. “He’s going through. He trusts his motors.”
A frown overspread his usually cheerful face. The frown had a meaning. He admired Speed. Speed was a wonderful pilot with thousands of hours of flying to his credit. Yet Speed had, only three days before, disappointed him. Perhaps disappointed is not the word. However that may be, this is what had happened. Curlie had said,
“You have to learn to trust God in a very real way when you fly in the North, don’t you?” He had not meant to preach; but Speed had said rather shortly:
“I trust my motors!”
“He trusts his motors,” the boy repeated. “‘Trust God and keep your powder dry.’ Some one has said that. Up here you have to trust God and keep your motors right. But I for one am not going to trust to my motors alone. God made the iron and steel, the copper and all that goes into my machine. He made the gas and oil, too. And He made my brain, and I’ll use it to the best of my ability. This is not safe flying weather. And orders are, ‘Always play safe.’”
Having thought this through, he returned to his cabin.
“Danger is all over,” he told himself. “But this D’Arcy person? How I’d like to help! Wonder if I will in the end?"
“Hot chocolate,” he murmured to himself. “A cold chicken sandwich and a big pot of beans, warmed over the alcohol stove. Boy! A fellow sure does get an appetite up here!”