But though Don Hale’s start in the third class had not been particularly auspicious, nevertheless, by the end of the day he managed to gain sufficient mastery over the plane to receive a “Pas mal, Hale!”—“Not bad!” from the same moniteur who had chided him.
That evening, while lying in his bunk, he summed up the situation in regard to himself. There were other pupils who had made faster progress, but the boy felt sure that what he had learned he had thoroughly learned. He knew, however, that there was a tremendous amount of work ahead of him before he could possibly hope to equal the skill of the most humble flyer of the Lafayette Squadron—a squadron which he devoutly hoped to join.
Difficulties have the effect on some natures of spurring them to greater zeal and determination; so it was in the case of Don Hale. Each failure, each “bawling out,” each chorus of laughter only acted as a stimulus.
In a little less than a week he had acquired sufficient skill in driving the machine in straight courses across the field to be promoted another step—that is to the tour de piste, or tour of the aviation field at a height of about three hundred feet.
This was, of course, designed to teach the airmen how to make their turns in the air, an operation requiring the greatest accuracy and care. Up to this time Don thought he had enjoyed about all the thrills that it was possible to have, but the first tour de piste undeceived him. All the other experiences faded into insignificance when compared to this. In his splendid isolation from all mankind, he was filled with a certain sense of awe a little unnerving at first. He was in a situation where no power save his own could be of any avail, and on the first two or three occasions involuntary tremors shook his frame as the Bleriot monoplane banked, or swung around at an angle.
Happily, however, there was no tragedy to record. With increasing confidence, Don dared to rise higher, and within a few hours had reached the required altitude. From this elevation he viewed with absorbed attention the wonderful panorama, which, like a colored map, was outspread before him, revealing fields of various forms, shapes and colors, and patches of woods and hills. And dividing the landscape were light lines—the roads—running in all directions.
His first tour was satisfactory to himself and his instructors. The turns held no terror for him.
Following this several days of bad weather put a stop to the work of the school. During the enforced inactivity Bobby Dunlap had his curiosity and interest in Victor Gilbert and Jason Hamlin still further heightened by a violent altercation between the two, although neither he nor any one else was near enough to overhear the conversation. The fact, too, that the young chaps had evidently been just on the point of indulging in a physical encounter made the “Gilbert-Hamlin affair,” as Bobby termed it, decidedly interesting.
“I’m going to find out all about it some day,” he laughed, nodding his head emphatically.
“Bully boy!” chuckled Sid Marlow.