“I guess not; though I never drank any pink tea,” laughed Don.
Some time later T. Singleton Albert approached the two.
“I thought I’d say good-bye, fellows,” he announced. “I’m leaving during the forenoon to-morrow, and you chaps might not happen to be around.”
“It’s too bad!” said Don. “I suppose it’s no use of our saying a word, eh?”
“Not a bit,” declared the other, very emphatically. “That tumble in the air certainly did the business for me. Why, do you know, even the very sight of an airplane going aloft gives me the queerest kind of feelings. Take my advice—be a bit slow in making haste. Then you won’t have to pack your suit-cases and get out, as I’m doing.”
Albert spoke in the tone of one who felt that his ambitions had been rudely shattered—that the future held no hope.
The daring young airman who had astonished the students by his rapid progress had become once more the drugstore clerk, the very antithesis of what an airman might be expected to appear.
Drugstore solemnly wished them the best luck in the world, hoped they might win fame and glory in the sky, and then, after shaking hands very heartily, wandered away to say his adieus to the others.
“I think, after all, the soda-water counter is his proper sphere in life,” remarked Dunlap, presently. “He’s more fitted to be reading about the exploits of other chaps than trying to do them himself.”
“I hope the weather is all right to-morrow,” broke in Don. “It was looking a bit threatening when we came in—all clouded over. Let’s take a look outside, ‘Fear Never.’”