Don Hale soon discovered that there was little military discipline about the camp. The students were perfectly free to amuse themselves in any way their fancy dictated, though Cal Cummings informed him that on lecture days absence from the classes was considered a pretty serious offense.
“I’d never want to play hooky,” declared Don, smilingly.
The day, wearing on, brought with it plenty of heat; therefore the shelter of the barracks was soon sought by the majority. Little comfort could be found inside, however. Swarms of flies—“of every known size—of every known species”—so Dublin Dan declared, also used it as a hotel; and, not being of a bashful disposition, they made themselves unpleasantly conspicuous. At one o’clock the little pests were sole masters of the situation, while the crowd joined other crowds in the spacious mess-hall.
During the meal T. Singleton Albert, having been heard to remark: “I say, did you see that last landing I made?” was loudly and insistently called upon to make a speech. Thereupon, he suddenly grew red in the face, and when forced to his feet by strong-arm methods stammered and stuttered to such a degree that the boys, perceiving that he had once more become the old, timid, shy Drugstore, mercifully let him alone.
Following lunch a game of baseball was played between two well-matched teams, one of them being captained by Victor Gilbert. Gilbert’s team won, which Cal Cummings declared was not strange at all, considering the fact that Victor had at one time been a crack player on a college baseball club.
After the game was over, Don, George and Dublin Dan set out for the aviation field together.
CHAPTER VI—DUBLIN DAN
Don Hale, standing before a much battered and bespattered “penguin,” experienced a delightful thrill, which ran through his entire being. Brimming over with ambition, equally full of confidence, he could see nothing ahead of him but success.
The moniteur in whose charge Don and several others were placed was a rather youthful and pleasant-spoken Frenchman. In a quick, incisive fashion, he began to give a little lecture on the airplane.
“The body is known as the fuselage,” he explained. “At the front and just beneath the wings, as you see, is the engine and propeller. This particular type of plane, and in fact the majority, are drawn and not pushed through the air. The pilot is seated in the cockpit immediately behind the motor. Two rudders and two ailerons are placed at the rear of the fuselage. The former, vertical, and used for steering the plane horizontally, are operated by a cross-piece of wood upon which the pilot rests his feet. The ailerons are horizontal, connected with a control stick by means of wires, and, of course, tilt the plane either up or down. The control stick is an upright lever in front of the pilot’s seat. These are details, however, that you need not bother with now. Monsieur Hale, take your place in number thirty-five. Monsieur Hagen may use number twelve.”