For a while Don was content to watch the antics of the “penguins,” which were now swarming over the field in great numbers, and, as on every previous occasion, he found plenty of thrills in the sight—collisions narrowly averted and machines performing the “chevaux de bois,” as the French say, which, freely translated, means acting like a merry-go-round.
Some time later on he was off in the airplane again, and shot forth and back across the field a number of times, with generally fair success, before taking another welcome rest.
Equally pleased over the afternoon’s work was Dublin Dan; and he proclaimed his satisfaction in a loud and boisterous manner.
“You won’t find me encouraging the scrap heap industry,” he chuckled. “I’m going to tear right through this course and hit the next before I’m many days older.”
“Well, so long as you don’t hit me I’m satisfied,” said Don, with a laugh.
“Never mind. Don’t crow too soon,” interjected the pessimistic Ben Holt. “You chaps are a long way from the sky yet. It’s pretty blue up there; and I’ve seen a few fellows just as blue when they couldn’t make it.”
“I’ll see red if I don’t make it,” chirped Dan.
A few minutes later Dublin Dan was taxiing across the field, while Don leisurely prepared to follow his example—in fact, so leisurely that it was not until number twelve was seen returning that he opened the throttle and sent the “penguin” at full speed ahead.
Ever mindful of the danger of collision, the boy was particularly careful to give the oncoming machine plenty of room, for, owing to the tremendously high rate of speed at which they were traveling, it would be only a few moments before the machines were abreast of one another.
Don Hale noticed that number twelve had suddenly begun to act in the most wildly erratic manner—so much so, indeed, as to suggest that the pilot must have gone all to pieces.