“When I saw you leaving I found out that I was sure! Will you be back this week-end?”
George Arlington Hemingwood yelled like a Comanche Indian, and started to climb out.
“Not now—no!”
“All right! Tell all the folks, and I’ll be here Saturday if I have to build a ship!”
Thuswise she sent him away.
Not until Goddard Field was in sight did George Arlington Hemingwood, of the Hemingwoods of Boston, come out of his rose tinted trance. His face was one wide grin as he sent the ton-and-a-half bomber roaring downward in sweeping spirals and graceful wingturns.
“Just before I left I seem to remember some remarks about love and matrimony!” he reflected. “I’ll have to tell these roughnecks some time, I suppose. Won’t that boy Snapper rave! And won’t I get the razz!”
He did. It continued spasmodically long after the quarters of Mr. and Mrs. Hemingwood became a popular gathering place, but Hemingwood bore up under it wonderfully.
THE END