“If there weren’t so many people who thought that,” Curt said soberly, “we wouldn’t have so many accidents. Flying is a science; and there’s more to it than getting into the air and going somewhere. It takes ground school study to learn the foundation part, and instruction flights to learn how things are handled, and solo flights and stunting to show you how to handle a crate in an emergency—and navigation in its practical applications, for long flights. But if you are in earnest, you can get all that, and pick up practical arithmetic and grammar and so on, in night school at the same time.”
“Not without money!”
“No—unless—you might come over to the Tredway aircraft plant and I’d introduce you to Barney—Mr. Horton, the manager. He might give you a chance to work as a ‘grease monkey’ in the field, for he is awfully nice. He helped all of us.”
The youth agreed eagerly, and then, with the chocks set and the ignition switch off, Curt told him how to work the propeller around, and got him back to safety as the ignition switch followed the gas “on.”
The engine took up its roar, and Curt knew enough to shut down the throttle to idling speed, allowing the slow revolutions to warm up the power plant. He knew little about oil pressure and instrument readings, but he knew that an engine, to function safely and steadily, in flight, must be warm.
While he busied himself getting everything as nearly ready as his ability allowed, Bob and Al reached the roadhouse.
The airplane had already “set down.”
“It’s the brown one, and no mistake!” Al was thrilled.
“Yes,” said Bob. “Now, Al, the pilot must have gone inside the roadhouse. I don’t see him around the dance place. You could go in to ask for his autograph. I see you still carry that little book. It ought to be easy to get a look at him, have him pointed out to you. That’s really all we need.”
Al agreed. He had no difficulty in getting a busy waiter to jerk a thumb toward one of the private compartments.