“And for a good many hours after that, I hope.”
The Annamites were now bringing in the wrecked and battered plane, headed for the repair shops, vast structures employing hundreds and hundreds of skilled mechanics and helpers. As they were near by and the night shift still at work, Don concluded to pay them a brief visit before journeying to the field where the third class, of which T. Singleton Albert was a member, flew in real airplanes to a height of no less than twenty-five feet.
And just at this time the boy was overjoyed to hear a familiar, cheery voice shouting:
“Hello, Don! Hello, old chap!”
Turning quickly, he spied his chum approaching.
“My, but I’m jolly glad to see you, George!” he called. “Playing the part of a wallflower isn’t a pleasant outdoor sport.”
“Well, it’s good you don’t get up in the air about it,” replied George, laughingly. “That’s right—always keep your feet on the ground.”
“I’ll try to, even when I’m a few miles high,” chirped Don.
George agreeing to Don’s plan, the two began traveling after the guttural-speaking Annamites.
“It strikes me ‘penguins’ ought to be easily managed,” declared Don, reflectively. “One just has to drive them in a straight line across the piste.”