“What’s goin’ on?” asked the farmer’s son.
“Some display for the opening of the roadhouse dance floor,” Curt replied, tightening down the tape and clipping off the end with his pocket knife.
“I don’t mean yonder. I mean here.”
“Oh! A little trouble. Crossed wires.”
The youth did not understand; but he accepted the explanation.
“Ain’t you awful young to be a aviation flyer?” he asked.
“I don’t—I’m not the pilot,” Curt stated. He explained. Then, his task finished, he clambered down to see the glow of the distant, concealed ground flares, and to guess that the sky rider was going to land.
“This is gettin’ to be a regular aviators’ place,” said the youth to Curt. “Guess pa ought to put up signs, ‘Places to land for rent.’”
“Do many crates land here?” Curt was surprised.
“Well—look at them tracks!”