“Get that long rope that came on the engine,” Hike ordered.
“All right, Geerawld,” sighed Poodle. “’F I’m going to get killed, I might’s well insult you while I have the chance.” He trotted out and found the rope, singing “Geerawld, brave HEro, brave HEro,” in a most cheerful manner. He was frightened at the prospect of his first aeroplaning, with so young an aviator as Hike, but once he admitted that, he stopped worrying about it, and wanted to get the first part of the ride over.
“Coil the rope there—uh—well—amidships,” said Hike. “Come on, now—shove!”
Perspiring and grunting, with their feet slipping on the turf floor of the aerodrome, they pushed out the big machine, then stood resting.
“Scared?” quizzed Hike.
“Uh huh.”
“Well, I’ll tell you now—you’d better know it if you’re going up with me. I’ve been running this tetrahedral for a week. Priest and I kept it quiet because the Lieutenant thinks I’m too young to run one, and Father’d be scared blue if he knew I was doing it. I don’t want to frighten him, and so I want to be a good, safe, crackerjack aviator before he knows. So keep still about this flight. But don’t worry. Why, one night—dark night, too—I flew this thing clear up to San Francisco—about a hundred and fifty miles the course we took—and circled over the city. And Priest never touched the levers except for a couple of minutes, while we were landing. All aboard.”
“Right!” said Poodle. Very gingerly, as though he were afraid of breaking something, Poodle crawled into the passenger-seat beside the aviator’s and stammered, “Gee, I don’t like the promenade deck on this liner. Too narrow for playing tag.”
Hike swung easily into his seat, snapped on the self-starter, and grasped the levers, shouting, “We’ll be down there by one o’clock.”
The machine bobbed roughly over the start, like a frightened hen with wings outspread, and launched beautifully. Hike, happy at being up in the brisk breeze and bright sunshine, hummed a little song to himself, and swung the Hustle southward.