Bob gave the propeller a couple of revolutions.
“Contact!” he cried, leaping aside to avoid the flailing, knife-like edges of the blades. The engine caught on the touch of spark to compressed gas mixture.
While Langley opened the throttle and warmed up his engine, Bob unconcernedly began to clamber into the after cockpit seat.
“You’re not going!”
“Oh, yes, I am.”
“Get out of there!”
“Listen, Lang,” Bob leaned close to Lang’s ear to carry his message above the noise of the radial engine, “which suits you best? To have me with you, to tell dad what I know before your face—or to have me telegraph him while you’re on your way, and let you explain to him what I have to tell?”
Lang, at first furious, presently saw the logic of Bob’s position.
“Oh—all right!” he grunted and “gave her the gun” in somewhat vicious spurts.
Bob, fitting on the “crash helmet” kept in the ’plane by Griff for him that afternoon, and the leather jacket and gloves, smiled.