“What’s to be done, fellows?” asked Tim Lovell.
“Done?” cried Willie. “Why, there isn’t a thing we can do, now, in this old farmhouse.”
“Well, it’s certain that you can’t stay in the machine shop poking into other people’s business all day,” said Cranny.
“When I want advice I’ll go to some one whom I can address as ‘Mister,’” returned Willie, scornfully. “Going sky-planing to-day, Somers?”
“It’s my turn to go up with Bob,” urged Tim Lovell.
“Well, I hope he won’t drop the subject, then,” said Willie. “Go on—an’ up. Do I ever intend to try it? No! Haven’t got the nerve, eh? Say, Cran, what’s a mailed fist?”
“A letter, sometimes,” chuckled Cranny.
“Huh; not so dense, after all,” said Willie. “If I were your dad, the mailed fist I’d send would knock you flat on the prairie.”
The first thing the boys did was to take stock of the provisions. Then they reached an agreement regarding the cooking, as usual, leaving Dave and Willie out of their calculations.
Later, Bob Somers, with Tim as his passenger, made a short cross-country flight.