“I’ve tried to, Mr. Grimshaw.”
“Well, you just keep up those tactics right along, and I’ll not steer you into any mishaps. There’s a big bulletin down at the pylon announcing this flight. Now get yourself in trim, to show the airmen what you’re made of. Have the little beauty out and look at her.”
Dave’s fascinated glance rested on a rare combination of grace and utility, as the Baby Racer was run out from under cover.
The machine was not a large one. It was a model of compactness, and had every latest improvement. Grimshaw operated the wings.
“It’s an articulated biplane,” he explained. “See here, where the wings are jointed and spread and close till they look like a big beetle. The fuselage is clear spruce. The landing chassis is made of rattan strips. See those reinforced skids, and that four cylindered aerial motor? The owners said she ought to have a muffler, for she spouts like a blast furnace when she starts.”
Mr. King came up, smiling and looking pleased, while tutor and pupil were looking over the Baby Racer. Then Hiram put in an appearance. He was so excited that he hopped around from place to place, telling Dave that he was the luckiest boy in the world.
By and by the news spread of the arrival of a new model, and a crowd began to gather. Airmen looked over the natty little machine and made their comments, pro and con. One fellow found all kinds of fault. Dave noticed that this was the most unpopular man with all the field, and the employer of the Dawsons at the present time.
“Who’s going to run her?” he asked of Grimshaw.
The old man placed a hand on Dave’s shoulder. The latter flushed modestly. The grumbler gave him a hard look.
“That kid?” he observed disgustedly.