He reflected that he could send the money and his ticket back to the pawnshop man, for it was too late to take the trip to town. His parents were apt to return at any time. They did not come very soon, however, and Frank went to bed, a lonely, unhappy and sinning boy.

The boys had so much to look at that for awhile they were quite silent. Then Bill remembered something.

"Say!" he suddenly exclaimed. "We are having the deuce of a time at the school. Right in our quarters, too. Did you hear?"

"No," said Frank, still staring out. "What was it?"

"Somebody stole six hundred dollars from Captain Jennings next door to us. It was money he had to pay the Battery, and it is gone. There is an awful fuss about it."

"Will they arrest him?" asked Frank.

"Why, no; they won't do that, of course. He didn't steal it from himself, and Dad says he has money besides what he gets as captain, but I don't suppose he likes the idea of making it good. There is going to be an awful fuss about it."

"Did he lose it out of his pocket?" asked Frank.

"No; that's the funny part," said Bill. "He had it on his desk in his study, under a paperweight, in an envelope, and that's the last he ever saw of it. Oh, there will be an awful fuss over it! Whoever took it will go to Leavenworth for so many years that he will have a good chance to be sorry about it. It is an awful thing."

"Do they suspect anyone?" asked Frank.

"I didn't hear anything this morning," said Bill. "We left too early. But there will be an awful fuss. Why, it is an awful thing, you know. I didn't know there was anyone over there low enough to steal. It makes me feel kind of queer!"



CHAPTER VIII

The day passed rapidly. The boys were the first in the dining-car when a meal was announced, and be it said they were almost the last to leave. They had been provided with plenty of money for "eats," as the two Major-fathers wisely remembered that a boy is never so hungry as when travelling. Also their section was the first one made up. They were tired, and sleepy.

They tossed up to see which should take the upper berth, both boys wanting it, and Frank won.

They spread their suitcases out on Bill's bed to open them, then Frank decided to take his up with him and climbed up into his lofty berth while Bill boosted and lifted the suitcase after him. Bill had packed his own suitcase for the first time, and his mother had smiled as she saw him carefully plant his pajamas on the very bottom. She said nothing, however, as she knew that another time he would lay them on the top where he could get them without any trouble. Frank had done the same thing, so for a little there was silence as the boys spread everything on the beds in a wild effort to locate the missing garments. At last they were found, and the suitcases repacked, hair brushes and tooth paste being salvaged as they went.

As Bill slipped into his pajama coat something pricked him. The pocket was pinned together with a large, rusty pin. He drew it out and from the pocket took a folded envelope.

"What in time is this?" he murmured to himself, then smiled as he reflected that it must be a little love letter from his mother. He winked mischievously at her picture on his wrist as he tore open the envelope. But there was no letter from mother in the envelope. Instead it was stuffed with perfectly new, crisp five-dollar bills. There were twenty of them. Twenty! Bill counted them twice. Then still disbelieving his eyes, he laid the beautiful green engravings all over his sheet and counted them one by one with his forefinger. Twenty! He noticed a small piece of paper in the envelope and examined it. It read briefly:

"BILL:

"i looked all over Lawton for sumething nise for you to take to school. So please spend this on something you like. I will tell your mother what I done so she wont kick. Anyhow I aint afraid of her kicking ever since the day i broke her big glass dish that you said was cut. It cut me all right, but she never said a word, and I bet she wont now when i explane. So remember when this you see, remember Lee. That is some poetry partly mine and partly out of a book. If I had kept at school the way I should of, I could have made the whole piece up myself. Rite soon to yours as ever,

"LEE."

Bill gasped. Then he gathered the precious money tight in his hand and standing on the edge of his berth, hoisted himself up to Frank's level.

"Glue your eye to this!" he whispered loudly over the racket of the train. "Gee, have you got the same?"

At the sound of Bill's voice, Frank, who was staring at a handful of bills, started violently, then forced a rather shaky smile.

"Found this in my pajama coat," he said; then as Bill waved his fist, "What! Have you the same thing?"

"Surest thing you know!" said Bill. "Never had so much money in my life. The darned old peach!"

"I haven't counted it," said Frank. "It sort of scared me. Who do you think gave it to us?"

"Didn't you read your letter?" asked Bill, wiggling the rest of the way up and taking a paper like his own from Frank's envelope. He handed it over and Frank unfolded and read it. Reluctantly, but seeing no way out of it, he handed it over to Bill.

"Frank," said the letter, "Lawton is a dead one. Nuthing in it for boys except rattles and guns and pink silk shirts and stick pins. But your dad wouldnt let you have the pins and your mothers wouldn't see you found dead in them shirts, and the pins was sort of advansed, so I want you to spend this money on something you like when you get to whatever it is.

"Just a present from your friend "LEE."

"P. S. Say, Frank, lets take a fresh start me and you. I wouldnt believe you would lie or steal even if some do do such. So you must take it from me that a good indian is a good indian just as a good white man is good.

"So that all we want to bother about that.

"Your true friend "LEE."

"Well, this beats all!" said Bill, handing back the letter. "Isn't Lee the peach though? I wish I was sure Mom would let me keep this. Isn't it great—all new fives! I suppose he thought it would be handy that way for us to spend."

"What does he mean about not believing that I lie or steal?" said Frank, scowling.

"Why, just what he says, you nut!" exclaimed Bill. "Can't you read? He means he knows you wouldn't do anything wrong, and so you must believe in him. I bet he has overheard some of the things you have said about him. Anyhow, it is just as he says. You must keep his present, and make a new start. He wants to be good friends with you and wants you to like him. And I should say he deserves it."

Frank said very little about the present but Bill didn't notice. He was too busy voicing his own surprise and gratitude. Before he finally slid down into his own berth he had spent the crisp new fives twenty times over. He thought he was too excited to sleep, but after he had pinned the present back in his coat pocket, and had carefully laid himself down on that side, and tied all the curtains shut, and balanced his suitcase on end at the front of the berth so a possible robber would tip it over on him, he was asleep in two seconds. It would have worked all right at that, only by-and-by in the middle of a dream where Bill was batter in a baseball nine that used ice-cream cones instead of balls, the train went around a curve and over came the suitcase. Bill was awake in a second, and for a moment had a hand-to-hand fight with the curtains before he realized what had happened. With a laugh he felt for his precious pocket, and slept again.

But in the upper berth Frank Anderson had tossed Lee's friendly letter and the packet of bills down to the end of the berth as though they were worthless. He was only a boy and should have slept but all night long he lay and stared at the little electric bulb burning dimly over his head. He lay and thought; and his thoughts burned like fire.

It was very late the following night when they reached their destination. Bill had come to the conclusion that Frank was not a very jolly traveling companion. He was moody and inclined to be really grouchy. And touchy.... Whew! It was all Bill could do to say the right thing. Finally he remembered that some people are always car-sick when they travel, and on being asked, Frank admitted that he didn't feel so very good. So Bill let him alone and things went better. Bill made a good many friends that day and came within an ace of being kissed by a pale little lady who found a chance to take a much needed nap because Bill took charge of her two-year-old terror of a baby boy while she slept. There was an old gentleman too, who asked him a million or more questions, and enjoyed himself very much. He asked the boys to take luncheon with him, and proved that he had not forgotten his boyhood by ordering the dandiest dinner—even a lot of things that were not on the bill. He was a director of the road, or vice-president, or something, the porter told Bill in a whisper, but Bill didn't pay much attention. What the old gentleman didn't tell was that he was a trustee of the very school the boys were going to attend. Some day they were going to meet him again, but that is another story.

Anyhow, it was very late when they arrived and they were piloted to their room by a pale young instructor who met them at the station in an ancient and wheezy Ford belonging to the school. They were the last boys to arrive, he told them, and school was to begin at eight o'clock in the morning. He warned them to be perfectly quiet as the boys were all asleep and it was against rules to speak or have the lights on after nine. But they were to be allowed a light to undress by, and he would come in in fifteen minutes and put it out.

They undressed in about a tenth of the time it usually took for that ceremony, and even Bill, who forgot to brush his teeth and had to get up again to do it, was deep under the covers when Mr. Nealum, the instructor, came silently in, said goodnight without a smile, turned off the light, found the door by the aid of a big flashlight he carried and silently disappeared.

"Undertaker!" whispered Frank.

"Shut up!" said Bill. He listened intently, then said under his breath, "Be careful! I thought I heard him breathe!"

"He is gone," answered Frank. "I heard him walk away."

"Not much you did!" said Bill. "He pussyfooted it. Must have had rubber soles on his shoes."

"I heard him anyhow," insisted Frank. The boys lay still, thinking over their new situation. It was very exciting. They were not lonely. Their narrow beds, but little wider than the quartermaster cots at Sill, were side by side, nearly touching. Presently Bill spoke.

"What's the matter with you, Frank?"

"Nothing! What ails you?" retorted Frank.

"Nothing, but you breathe so hard—sort of choky and gaspy."

"That's you doing that," said Frank. "I can't sleep with you snorting so."

"I tell you it's you!" said Bill. "I listened to myself breathe, and you couldn't hear me. I was breathing just like this." He gave a sample, and you could not hear him. Then as both boys listened, things began to happen.

Frank made a light leap from his bed and landed on top of the stunned, scared and astonished Bill.

"Sssssh!" hissed Frank. "The money!... Robbers!... Under the bed!"

Frozen with horror, the boys listened intently. The breathing was under Bill's bed. It seemed as though they lay listening for a week before Bill made a violent motion to free himself from Frank's grasp.

"Where you going?" hissed that youth.

"To light the light and give the alarm. If he tries to get out, we will hold him."

"Stay here!" commanded Frank.

For answer Bill wrenched himself free and bounded out on the floor. With another bound he reached the light and turned the button. No light responded. He stood beside the wall, uncertain what move to make next. The sensible thing seemed to be to shout an alarm or else go out and find Mr. Nealum. In either case what would the robber do to Frank, who was roosting right above him? The breathing under the bed continued, now fast, now slow, up and down. Bill had heard something like that somewhere.

As his fright subsided, he recognized the sounds as very familiar. Bill had not lived in the apartments at Sill for nothing. Too, too often had he listened to the sounds that trickled clearly through the plaster-board partitions. Those partitions were like sounding boards. From one apartment to the next, they transferred the arguments, discussions and all goings-on on the other side. Bill laughed soundlessly in the dark. The lights had been turned off at some central switch, and the darkness was intense. He was lost in the strange room. He took a step sidewise along the wall and stubbed his toe against a suitcase. Bending, he found that it was his own. The problem was solved. Rummaging hastily, he found his flashlight.

"Frank!" he called in a low whisper.

"W-w-what?" quavered from the dark.

Following the direction of the low sound, Bill crossed the room until his outstretched hand collided with Frank's eye. This mostly happens, you know. Frank stifled a howl as Bill hissed, "Listen! We have him now! He's asleep—snoring. Let's take a look at him and then beat it for Mr. Nealum. He must be somewhere about."

"Don't you do it!" whispered Frank, clutching Bill. "Find Mr. Nealum first. You go to flashing that light in his eyes and you will wake him up. He's apt to kill us before you could get to the door."

"Think what a lark it will be if we take him prisoner all by ourselves! We can tie him up with these sheets in no time. Now I tell you how we will work it. As soon as we see just how he is lying, I will shove the bed off him, and you lam him good and plenty with that dictionary. Soon as you do that I will throw all the blankets and bedclothes and the mattress on him and then we will sit on him and yell. Somebody ought to come."

Frank still objected, sure from the size of the sounds that were now easily recognizable as snores, that the robber was really in a deep sleep.

"If he is anything like Lee," he said, "he will throw us off in a second."

"But you are going to lam him one!" whispered Bill patiently. "You must hit hard enough to knock him out—stun him."

"Well, have it your own way!" conceded Frank. He commenced to realize what a wonderful introduction this would be to the boys of the school if it went through as smoothly as Bill seemed to think it would.

"Here, take the flashlight, but don't turn it on," whispered Bill. "I want to get the bedclothes ready."

Silently and quickly he loosened the tucked-in sheets and blankets. He rolled up the sleeves of his pajama coat

"Now," he said, "let's take a look before we roll the bed away."

Clutching the dictionary in both hands, Frank slid to the floor where he crouched, shivering from excitement. Bill, on his knees, folded a handkerchief over the flashlight to dim it, then pressed the button. Slowly he turned it under the bed. The dim light rested on a tumbled shock of hair and a flushed face, pillowed uncomfortably on a cramped and doubled arm.

Snores rattled furiously from the open mouth. Sleeping the sleep of the weary, the thief lay completely at their mercy.

"Gosh!" said Bill as he looked.

"Gee-roosalem!" murmured Frank.

With a bang the big dictionary slipped from his hands and landed on the floor.

The intruder with a violent start opened his eyes and looked at them.



CHAPTER IX

Setting the flash so it would not go out, Bill laid it down on the floor, cried "Oh, you robber!" and beginning to laugh continued until he had to lie on the floor and roll around. Frank, laughing, too, carefully shoved back the bed. The intruder sat up, rubbing his eyes.

"I guess the joke is on me," he said.

It was Horace Jardin!

"This beats everything in my young life," said Bill as soon as he could speak. "What are you doing here anyhow, scaring the life out of two poor little boys on their very first night in boarding-school? Don't you know you are making us break rules the first shot?"

Horace laughed sheepishly.

"I was going to give you a good old scare," he said, "but I was so tired and it took you so long to get here that I went to sleep. But I bet you are surprised to see me here."

"Here at this school, or under our beds?" quizzed Bill.

"Both," said Horace.

"How did it happen?" asked Frank.

"It was the airplane," explained Horace. "This is the only school in the country where they let you fool with this air stuff, and so I told dad that it was no use bribing me with an airplane to stay in school all the year if I couldn't go where I could use it. I have learned to fly, by the way. Dad paid a dollar a minute to have me taught. I tell you I am a whiz! It cost him five hundred dollars for my tuition, and two thousand more to mend a plane I broke, but he was so pleased at the way I learned that he didn't mind the bills at all. So here I am, and when I heard you were coming—well, I was certainly tickled! So I sneaked in here as soon as the bell rang for lights out, and first I knew I was asleep."

"From the way you were snoring, I should say first thing you knew you were awake," laughed Frank.

"Guess I will beat it now," said Horace. "There is no school to-morrow—just the organization of classes, and we can go down to the hangars and see my plane. You ought to see those dinky little hangars! Not much like the big government ones. There are only three planes. Mine and one belonging to the school, and one that belongs to a fellow from Toronto. It is a peach, and he thinks he can beat me in a race. We are going to try it out some day if we can ever get up without an instructor. They are awful strict here. I will have a deuce of a time if they catch me in here."

"I should think you had better fade away then," said Frank uneasily. "We don't any of us want to get in wrong."

"Well, I am glad you have come, fellows," whispered Jardin, tiptoeing to the door. "Put out that flash, Bill! You don't want to tell everybody what we are doing. See you in the morning. Goodnight!".

He slipped out, and the boys silently crept back into their beds.

"That beats all!" exclaimed Bill after a long pause when he decided by Frank's breathing that he was still awake. "I surely thought we were quit of that chap."

"You always have it in for him, haven't you?" said Frank. "You are a funny one. Always cracking up that Indian orderly of yours as such a peach and a straight fellow, and forever knocking a first-class good sport like Jardin."

"I didn't mean to knock Horace," said Bill, "but he does seem—well, I don't know just what!"

"I guess that's about it," sneered Frank. "Just about it! You don't know why you knock him or what about, because you have just made up your mind to do it. Well, suit yourself! I like Jardin and he is good enough for me, and that's all I have to say about it. You can do as you please; don't mind me."

"Don't get so sore," said Bill. "I told you back home that I was going to treat him decently, and I am."

He turned on his pillow and was silent, and both boys were asleep in about a minute. They were very tired.

Early in the morning Jardin introduced the Toronto boy, and they found him a very quiet, pleasant chap who made no pretensions of any sort. Together they walked down to the hangars.

"How do you learn to fly in the civilian schools?" asked Bill of the Toronto boy, whose name was Ernest Breeze.

"It is about the same as the government schools," said the boy. "You know something about flying, don't you?"

"A little," replied Bill modestly. "I can control the machine on the field, but I have never been up. There are reasons that keep me from flying but I hope to some day."

"Well, we learned on an old style Bright," said Ernest. "With a dual control, you know. You take the same seat you will always occupy, you follow every movement of the instructor beside you, and you sort of feel that you are managing the levers all alone, until you sense the tricks of the machine and learn a few things like rising from the field, manoeuvering and landing. It is a good deal easier than it is to drive an automobile."

"That's the way you start at the aviation schools in the Army," said Frank. "But there you don't have to pay any of this dollar-a-minute business."

"No," said Ernest, "but in exchange for your tuition you have to join the Aviation Corps. And now that the war is over, I would rather do postal work, or ferry or excursion lines instead of hanging around an Army aviation camp. My aim is to be as perfect a flier as I possibly can, and then if there is ever any need of another Army Aviation Corps, why, I will enlist right off. You see your final test qualifies you for government service if you make good."

"What do you think is the quality a birdman should have most of?" asked Bill.

"Our instructor used to say a pilot should have courage, skill, knowledge, aptitude and confidence; but he always went on to say that all these together amounted to very little unless you have a bushel of common sense. I think he was right. I had to earn part of my tuition in the Aviation school because I didn't want to ask my father to pay all that out for me and get me an airplane beside. That is why I am just entering school. As long as the war lasted, I thought I ought to be learning something that would help a bit if they needed me, but it ended before I got a chance to offer myself, and now I have got to work mighty hard to make up for the time I spent in the air. That's why I am here. I want to keep in practice and fly whenever I am not busy with school work."

He looked critically at the sky.

"It is going to be a wonderful day up there," he said. "Don't you want to come up, one of you?"

"Frank is going with me," said Jardin.

"Come on then," invited Ernest, smiling at Bill.

"I am sorry, but I can't go up," said Bill, flushing.

"Bill likes to stay on the ground pretty well," sneered Jardin, pushing open the door of the hangar. He disappeared within, followed by Frank.

"Well, that's all right," said Ernest, smiling pleasantly. "I don't see as it is anyone's business what you like to do. I think if you feel a bit uneasy you are very wise to stay right on the ground."

"It is not that at all," said Bill, acting on a sudden impulse to tell this pleasant young stranger the reason for his refusal. "It is not that, and the reason probably won't interest you. Frank and Horace are always kidding me about it, but I can't help it. You see, I promised my mother that I wouldn't go up. She has a bad heart, and a shock like my getting hurt would certainly kill her. I can't risk that, can I? And when you come down to it, it is just as you say. I don't see as it is anybody's business what I do."

"I rather think not," said Ernest, clapping Bill on the shoulder. "I guess if you were in my boat, with no mother to do things for, you would be glad enough to give up a thing like that. What do you care what they say?"

"I don't," declared Bill, "only they always give people the impression that I am afraid. And I am not."

"Of course you are not!" exclaimed Ernest. "That bores me awf'ly! Let's get my little boat out. You don't mind skating around the field, do you?"

"Tickled to death!" said Bill eagerly, and hastened into a place in the trim, beautiful little plane.

The moment they were set in motion he saw that the plane was a wonder. It answered to the slightest touch of the wheel or levers and rode the humps on the field with a motion that told Bill, experienced as he was in that part of the sport, that it was made of the finest possible materials.

His admiration finally burst into speech.

"What a beauty this is!" he roared over the blast of the throbbing engine.

The young pilot turned a lever, and the racket subsided into a soft, steady humming.

Bill repeated his remark. Ernest stopped the plane and, getting out, commenced to adjust the engine.

"I see she needs a little tuning up this morning," he said, pulling off his gauntlets and fishing a screwdriver out of one of the many pockets in his aviator's coat. Bill joined him.

"It is a good machine," admitted Ernest. "I am certainly proud to own it. It is too good a machine for me but I am as careful of it as I know how to be. I think so much of it that I never try any fool stunts with it. Dad says it was worth all he put into it just on that account. He says that perhaps I would forget to take care of my own safety, but he is sure I will never fail to look after this little pet. For instance, when I was learning to fly three years ago (and I don't consider that I really know how to do it yet) they tried to din it into me that I must always keep the tail of my machine a little higher than the nose, in case the engine should go dead when I wasn't expecting it."

"What would happen then?" asked Bill, deeply interested.

"Well, if the aeroplane is correctly balanced with the tail a little higher than the nose it will be ready for a glide if the engine goes dead, and on the other hand it is apt to lose headway, and go down tail first. And that, you know," added Ernest, laughing, "is often very uncomfortable for the occupants of the car."

"I should say so!" agreed Bill.

"Chaps make such a mistake trying to build their own cars," said Ernest. "More accidents come from that than people realize. While the war was going on, no one had time to tinker at building, but now half the chaps I know are studying up and attempting to make aeroplanes for themselves.

"It just can't be done. For instance, every piece of wood used in a machine must be tested with the greatest care. A chap can't do that himself. Every piece of wire used has got to be stretched in a machine specially invented for the purpose. For instance, to find the breaking strain of a piece of wire, a piece fifteen inches long is placed between the jaws of a standard testing machine, so that a length of ten inches of the wire is clear between the two ends. What they call the 'load' is then put on by means of a handle at the rate of speed of about one inch a minute. You can't do this yourself, and by the time you have sent your wire, or have taken it where the test can be applied, and have also had the test made on the twist of your wire, and all the woodwork, you will have a machine that will cost more than one made by skilled workmen. There is another test too that is very necessary. That is for your wing fabric. It ought all to be soaked in salt water. If the fabric has been varnished, the salt will soften it. Then dry the sample in the sun and if it neither stretches nor shrinks, you will know that it is all right, and you will feel safe about using it."

"I took in all I could learn, without actually going up, at the Aviation field at Sill," said Bill. "I will get my chance some day. I wrote mother this morning, telling her about our trip and all, and I asked her if she thought she would sometime feel like letting me fly. I didn't ask her to let me, you know, but I have a hunch that something might happen sometime and I might almost have to fly. So I told her just how I felt about it. Whatever she says goes."

"That's a good sport!" said Ernest, smiling. "It seems to me that I would be willing to give up anything in the world if I could have my mother alive to make sacrifices for. Of course I have dad, and he is a corking pal and just an all-round dear, but a chap's mother is different, somehow. I think you were wise to write that letter, for you never know what might come up. If your mother is what I should think she is, she will understand that you are not trying to fix a loophole for yourself or tying a string to your word of honor."

"No, she won't think that," said Bill positively. "Mother and I understand each other. I can trust her and she knows she can trust me. It makes things nice all around. She will be crazy about this machine of yours. Perhaps she will take a little glide with you, if she doesn't feel like actually going up. She has promised to come on and spend the Thanksgiving vacation with me."

"Good work! That makes me feel glad that I can't go home. I am going to stay right through the whole year and put in some extra work during the vacations."

"Mom will like you too," said Bill. "She will want to know all about the plane, and when she gets through listening she will know 'most as much as you do. There is one thing I am afraid of, if I should fly, and that is spinning. Now if you begin to side-slip, either outward or inward, you are apt to commence to spin, and—well, there is usually a speedy and more or less painless end to you and your hopes."

"I think, Bill, that you will have no trouble in learning to control a machine when your mother feels like releasing you from your promise. I knew of a fellow once who made a long and successful flight with no preparation at all other than what he had learned from books and observation."

"I don't believe I would want to try anything like that," laughed Bill, "but I am stowing away all I can gather here and there."

"The thing for you to do," said Ernest, "is to roll around the fields every chance you get. I will be glad to take you with me any day or every day that you feel like going. Of course you won't have very much time after to-day except on Saturdays. To-morrow classes will be in full swing. Get in now and take my seat."

Ernest tucked his screwdriver deep in his pocket, pulled his goggles over his eyes and, seating himself behind Bill, directed his actions. A thrilling two hours followed for Bill.

When at last they returned to the vicinity of the hangar from which they had started, they found an excited and angry group around Horace Jardin's aeroplane. Something was wrong with it and the two mechanics working over it were unable to find out why the machine refused to fly. It refused, indeed, to rise from the ground and the engine worked with a peculiar jolt. The sound of the bugle from the high ground in front of the mess hall called them to lunch and they went off, leaving the men still at work. Horace was in a very bad humor, and as usual indulged himself in a number of foolish threats, the least of which was to scrap the whole machine.

"I will do it sure as shooting!" he blustered. "If that machine isn't going to come up to the maker's guarantee, I will make my dad get me one that will. I won't tinker round with any one-horse bunch of junk like this looks to be."

"Give it a chance," suggested Bill soothingly.

"Not a darned chance!" declared Jardin. "I tell you my father promised me an aeroplane, and he has got to come across with a good machine! He will do it, too. He's too stuck on me to risk my being hurt. And he knows it is not my fault. I can fly all right."

"Don't junk it, anyhow," said Frank anxiously.

"Want to buy it?" asked Bill.

"I might," said Frank, "provided Horace doesn't charge too much."

"If she won't fly, I will sell her to you for five hundred dollars," declared Horace. "You can tie a string to her, and Bill here can have her to lead around the lot."

"That's a go," said Frank. Everyone laughed, but a look of cunning suddenly flamed in Frank's eyes. He commenced to lay a train for Jardin's anger to burn upon, a sort of fuse leading up to the explosion Frank wished. He cast a quick glance at the others. It was evident that they took the whole conversation as a joke. But Frank, with an arm over Jardin's hunched shoulders, commenced pouring into his willing ears a stream of abuse directed at the makers of Horace's beautiful plane, and an account, invented on the spot, of divers people who had thrown over their planes for just the reason which had so angered Horace. Frank, with his real working knowledge of flying learned at the greatest of schools, was able to talk in a most convincing manner. Horace, sunk in a sullen silence, listened closely.



CHAPTER X

The first week of school, full of adjustments and experiments, passed with the greatest swiftness. The boys were soon accustomed to their surroundings and threw themselves with enthusiasm into their studies and drill. Every possible moment was spent on the aviation field. Bill was learning every quirk and crank of such work as he could do in Ernest's plane without leaving the ground.

The mechanicians still worked on Horace Jardin's plane, but seemed to make no headway. Horace threatened one thing and then another, ready to take the advice of whoever stood nearest. Frank made it a point to be that person as often as possible. He fretted no longer about money, a fact that pleased Bill.

Then Saturday came, and things commenced to happen.

First was the usual rush for the morning mail at eight o'clock. There was a letter from Mrs. Sherman, which Bill carried into the deserted library to read. He always wanted to be alone when he read his mother's letters. They were so dear and so precious, and seemed so nearly as though she herself was speaking to him, that he hated to be in a crowd of careless, chaffing boys.

When he had read half the long, closely written pages, however, he gave a shout and hustling down the corridor to the chemistry room, burst in upon Ernest who was doing some extra work there.

"Hey, Ern!" cried Bill, waving the letter. "Hear this! My mother is a peach if there ever was one!"

The elder boy laughed. "I bet she says you can fly," he guessed.

"Just that. Listen!"

Bill hastily hunted for the right place.

"'You know, darling' ... no, that's not it," he hastily corrected himself. "Here it is. 'Perhaps I have been selfish in asking you not to try your wings until you are older. Your dad assures me that you are an expert with your automobile and says that there are no age limit flyers. You see, the trouble is, sonny, that it is hard for your mother to realize that you are going to grow up soon. You notice that I say you are going to, not you are growing up. This is a gentle way of leading up to what I want to say about flying.

"'Dear boy of mine, please, please let your promise stand, with this much of a release. If ever, ever there comes an occasion of the greatest importance, an occasion where you know I would approve—and you always do know when I approve—then you may fly. I hope and pray that it will not come, but if it does, you will know how to act. And whatever you do you will know that your mother stands back of you because she trusts in your judgment.

"'I sound like a nobul parent, don't I, Bill dear? Well, I do feel that I am on the safe side, because I cannot foresee any possible occasion for you to go flying off from school. However, if ever you feel that you must, why, you may!

"'Get that nice boy Ernest to teach you everything he can, and if you have to fly, ask him to fly with you.'

"That's all she says about that," said Bill with a happy grin, "but now I feel safe. I don't know why, but I had a sort of hunch that I ought to ask her to let me fly if I had to."

"It is certainly nice of your mother," remarked Ernest, "but I agree with her that there will be very little chance of your finding it absolutely necessary to go aloft in the near future. Of course if you go, I will go along."

"I have not read the rest of the letter," said Bill, "but I had to show you this. I will read the rest now."

He hurried back to the library and resumed his reading. And the very next sentence made him sit up straight, a dark scowl on his face.

"And now I must tell you something so dreadful and so sad that I can scarcely write it," said the letter. "You will remember the money that was stolen from a certain officer next door to us here? It happened just before you left for school. Oh, Bill, you will find it almost impossible to believe it when I tell you that our Lee, Lee whom we have always found so honest and so faithful, is under arrest for taking it.

"It seems that two ladies were sewing or visiting on the porch across from our quarters, and a colonel was reading at the end of our own porch. Lee came out and went to the telephone and kept saying hello so many times that they all noticed him. The telephone is right beside the window, and inside, on a desk, the money was lying in an open envelope under a paperweight. The weight was so heavy the money could not blow away. Lee was the only one out there while the owner of the desk was away from it. He was only gone for a moment, while he spoke to an orderly at the back door.

"You know Lee always has lots of money of his own, but now they don't believe that his grandfather sends him the money at all. He is up for trial and if he is convicted, (and the circumstantial evidence is very strong) he will be sent to Leavenworth for years and years. It is a dreadful offence.

"The money was in an official envelope, and if that could only be found Lee would be cleared, unless it was found in his possession. They even ripped up his uniforms to see if it was hidden there, but now they think he has burned it. Of course I believe in Lee. It is all a horrible mistake, and some day perhaps it will be cleared up, but not soon enough to save Lee because if he even gets inside Leavenworth he will feel disgraced for life and I don't know what will become of him.

"Oh, Bill, it is simply too awful! Of course they found three or four hundred dollars on him, but he always has a great deal too much money for an enlisted man to be traveling around with. Dad is simply sick over it. Our Lee! We don't know what to do. Who could have taken that money? And where is the envelope? If we could only find that! They say a criminal always leaves some clue behind him, but the person who stole that money must be a clever thief. There is nothing, absolutely nothing to guide us.

"Isn't it too awful? I wish you would write to Lee. He is in the guard house, but I could get a letter in to him without any trouble. Make him understand, Bill, that you believe in him and are his friend. He is down-hearted."

There was but little more in the letter. Bill's mother had felt too sad to fill the pages with all the little details of the Post. And Bill, after he had read about Lee, felt as though he could never smile again. He felt helpless and lonesome and very far away. He wished heartily that he was back on the Post. It did seem as though he could help if he only knew what to do.

Advice: that was what he wanted. But who was there to advise him? The principal of the school was absolutely out of the question. He thought of the instructors one by one. No good on such a count.

Troubled beyond words, he made his way slowly to his room. Frank was not there, and Bill sat down and wrote a letter to his mother, which he later sent special delivery. It was rather a rambling and purposeless affair, but the best he could do under the circumstances. The note which he enclosed for Lee was quite different in tone, and was intended to make the prisoner believe that it was only a question of a few days before the real culprit would be led to justice.

The trouble with Bill was that he could remember nothing at all of the events of the fateful morning of the robbery except that he was busy packing and yelling good-byes to everyone who passed the back door of the quarters, Bill's locker being on the back porch, past which long lines of student officers on their way out to make road maps continually marched two by two, followed by the usual company of little and big mongrel dogs that are always found on army Posts. Bill could see the men and the dogs and he remembered the greetings, but who passed by or what occurred on the front porch he did not know. His mind remained a blank.

Frank came in whistling. He grinned in an unfriendly fashion when he saw his roommate slumped in the camp chair by the window.

"Heard the news?" he demanded.

"No; what's up?" asked Bill without interest.

"Well, the school was just put under strict quarantine," said Frank. "The town and all the country is so full of that new disease, what-you-call-it, that we are going to be shut up here for goodness knows how long. And they say there are seven fellows down with it in the hospital now. What do you suppose they will do if it gets to be an epidemic in the school? I saw old Nealum just now, and he was mum as an oyster: looked bad, because he always loves to give out information, you know. We are to go to chapel in half an hour for instructions and new rules. Wish they would send us home! I don't like school."

"I would like to go home too," said Bill.

"Why, I thought you were dippy over your 'dear school' and your 'sweet teachers,'" sneered Frank.

"It's all right," said Bill, "but I got a letter from home just now. Lee is under arrest for stealing that money."

Bill was looking out of the window. He did not see the look of triumph that swept over Frank's face.

"Good work!" said Frank. "I knew he was a crook, and I knew that sooner or later they would grab him. Did they find the money?"

"They didn't find the money, and Lee is as straight as I am!" declared Bill. "And if you say anything different I will lick you out of your skin! I have a mind to do it anyhow!"

Frank glanced at the door. "You make me tired!" he said. "You won't let anybody have an opinion without jumping them for it. Wait and see what comes of this before you get so brash! I am going out to the field. Ern is waiting for you there, or perhaps he will meet you in chapel. Nealum told me there was going to be a halt on most of the indoor classes. They want to keep us out in the air. That will give us a lot more time with the planes. Too bad your mother won't let you fly. You could fly home. I would do it if I owned a plane. Jardin is sick of his."

He went off whistling, and Bill walked wearily to the chapel.

Days went by. The country trembled for the children and young men and women who were being stricken, the teachers redoubled their efforts to keep the boys well and happy, and the boys themselves regarded the affair as a happy interlude in the year's grind.

Our four boys spent all their leisure time on the aviation field. The Jardin plane seemed possessed. Every night, after the mechanicians had spent the day working over it, the machine would go sailing off the field, purring and humming and flying smoothly and evenly. And as surely as morning came something was wrong! Jardin was frantic. Frank, always at his elbow, irritated him into admissions and statements that he scarcely recognized as his own when he afterwards thought about them. He was not wise enough to put two and two together.

Another letter came from Mrs. Sherman, and on the same mail one from Major Sherman written, not from his cozy desk in quarters, but over at his office.

Bill looked very grave after he read it. Strangely enough, he had left his mother's letter for the last. Major Sherman wrote to know what watch Bill had pawned. A pawnbroker in Lawton had written him to say that he would be glad to sell the watch left with him as he had a good customer for it. Major Sherman wanted an explanation from Bill. He had simply written the man to hold the watch until he had heard from his son.

Bill was stunned. What it all meant he could not guess. Something strange was in the air. He felt the influence of evil but could not place it. Taking his mother's letter, still unopened, he walked slowly to the library. It was full of boys, all laughing and talking. It had become a lounging room during the quarantine. Bill could not read there. Slamming on his cap, he wandered over to the hangar. Climbing into Ernest's plane, he huddled down where he was effectually hidden. He knew that Ernest would not be out of the chemistry laboratory for hours, and he tore open his mother's letter and read it rapidly.

Lee had been convicted! Bill groaned in anguish as he read the words. He was to be taken to Leavenworth as soon as a couple more trials were held so that all the prisoners could go under the care of one officer and a squad. Lee going to prison! Bill could not believe it. And Lee had told Mrs. Sherman that he would never be taken to Leavenworth alive. Bill shuddered.

Stunned by his emotions, Bill lay motionless in the cramped quarters he had chosen. Presently he heard a light footstep. It stopped close beside him and Bill, raising himself on his arm, peered over the edge of his small quarters at the back of Frank Anderson, who was bending over the engine of Horace Jardin's plane. No one else was in the hangar. Bill heard the scrape of steel on steel and saw Frank slip a small screwdriver into his pocket. Then Bill dropped out of sight, and soon he heard Frank retreating to the small door of the hangar where he stood for a moment looking out before he went out.

Five minutes later he returned with Horace Jardin.

Horace as usual was sputtering.

"I tell you, Andy," he said with his usual bluster, "this is the last day I will fool with that plane. Absolutely the last! If she doesn't go before night, she needn't go at all. I will get rid of her. Dad wrote me this morning that he had had a letter from the chief mechanician here, and what the fellow says about the plane looks as though the company had put one over on us. Dad won't stand for that. He is going to make them replace the car. But they can't have this one back. I will sell it sure as shooting! I need money."

"What's your price?" asked Frank.

Jardin registered deep thought. "I need five hundred," he said.

"I will buy it," replied Frank. "I can make a little on it if I sell it for junk, and you can't afford to dicker around like that. It would be out of place for a Jardin to be dealing in second-hand stuff. Everyone knows I have nothing."

"How do you come to have the five hundred then?" asked Horace suspiciously.

Frank flushed but did not hesitate.

"A present from my grandmother," he said, trusting to luck that Jardin would not know that the lady had been dead for many years.

"Well, if she doesn't go by to-night, she is yours for the five hundred," promised Jardin. "I wonder where those mechanicians are. Let's go look them up."

Together the boys went out, and Bill, feeling it was high time to escape, leaped out of the plane and dodged out the door.

Across the field, Ernest, the two mechanicians, Frank and Horace were talking excitedly.

Bill joined the group.



CHAPTER XI

"No use talkin' Mr. Jardin," one of the men blurted out as Bill came up. "There is some monkey work going on here. Somebody is foolin' with your plane. We lock the hangar every night, and someone is always around all day, but allee samee, as the Chinee says, allee samee, somebody gets that machine all out of tune as soon as I get it right. And it's no fool, either. Whoever is tinkering with it understands that type of flyer down to the ground. He knows just what to discombobolate in order to make us the most trouble."

Ernest laid a hand on the man's shoulder.

"The thing is, Tom, we will have to look for a motive. Now what earthly motive can anyone have?"

"Search me!" said Tom. "Whoever is doing it doesn't want to hurt Mr. Jardin here, because the damage is always to something that will keep the plane from rising. For instance, yesterday the spark plugs had mud in 'em. Before that, the exhaust wouldn't work; one time the priming pin was clean gone; once the dust cap was half off; then the drum control, warping the wings got on the blink. I tell you, it is enough to drive anybody crazy! Lately we have took to sleeping in the hangar, but things happen just the same."

"I am afraid it is a case of poor construction," said Ernest. "There is no one who would pick on Jardin like that. Why don't they do something to my plane? Jardin has no enemies. He has invited about every boy in the whole school to ride with him."

"Certainly I have!" said Jardin. "I guess I more than pay my way around this place! I have stood treat oftener than any one in the whole school. It doesn't pay to be an enemy of mine."

Ernest frowned. "It is not a case of treating," he said sternly. "It is merely that no special fellow here owes you a grudge. So, as they have no reason to owe me a grudge either, I don't see why I do not come in for some of the damage, or you, Tom. There are only three planes here. Why do they pick on Jardin? It beats me! There is something back of this that I do not understand."

Bill, cautiously studying Frank, said to himself, "There will be trouble with the other planes to-morrow. The conversation has given Frank an idea."

"Well," said Jardin mysteriously, "after today I don't care what happens. Come along, Tom, and see if she is all to the bad today."

Together they walked over to the hangar and wheeled Jardin's plane out into the field. It could not be made to start. Tom gave a short, hard laugh.

"I am beaten!" he declared. "The screws are all loose on the interrupter and it will take me all day to adjust the engine again."

"Gee, that's a shame!" said Frank, shaking his head.

Bill looked at him with amazement. After what he had seen in the hangar, the boy's sly cunning filled him with amazement. He had an overwhelming desire to confide in someone, and Ernest flashed into his mind.

The sky was growing very dark, and a queer yellow light spread the northwest like a blanket.

Tom turned the plane and headed it back toward the hangar. "No flyin' today," he said. "Look at that sky!"

The boys helped him put the plane away, then they sauntered up to the school. A flash of lightning split the sky.

"Funny time of year for lightning," said Bill.

"It is, at that!" answered Ernest. "But it looks to me as though we were going to have a real electrical storm. Let's get under cover."

They raced up the hill and into the building just as the storm descended in good earnest. As Bill hurried to his room to shut the window, the boy in the telephone booth called him.

"Telegram for you," he said, shoving the message through the wicket. Bill signed the slip with a hand that shook a little. His mother! She was his first thought. But her name was at the foot of the message which proved to be a night letter.

"Lee will be taken to Leavenworth on Tuesday," it ran. "Circumstantial evidence too strong. He is in a dreadful state but promises me to take it like a soldier. Wish that you were here, but am told the quarantine is absolutely strict. Will see you Thanksgiving if possible. Love. Mother."

Bill turned abruptly and went after Ernest. No one had seen him. Presently he gave up the search and went to his room where he found everything in the greatest disorder and a gale sweeping clothing, papers and bedding from their places. He closed the window and straightened up the place, moving the two army lockers to a new and better position and rearranging his desk. He was too worried and restless to work, so he went to the window, and leaning against the sash, watched a spectacular storm sweep across the valley. In the distance he could see the trolley cars struggling against the blast, but presently they were seen no more. Great branches broke from the trees and whirled through the air. The steel flag-pole before the main building bent perilously and, as Bill watched, a row of telephone poles went toppling over. Blacker and blacker grew the air, and at last with a crash the rain fell. Bill drew a chair and moodily stared out into the whirling wet landscape.

All day the storm raged and Bill, worried and irresolute, sought Ernest. It was not until supper time that he found him.

He had shut himself in the clubroom over the grill and had been boning for an examination. Mess over, they wandered out on the terrace. The storm was over, completely and wholly. The air was clear, the sky cloudless. A gentle breeze fanned them. Trolley wires, telephone poles and trees lay in every direction, with here and there a rolled-up tin roof. It had been bad enough while it lasted.

"Come over here by the tennis court," suggested Bill. "I want to talk to you. A lot of things have happened in the last few weeks, and I don't know what to make of them."

"Fire ahead if I can help," said Ernest.

Bill commenced his story with the influence Jardin seemed to have over Frank and concluded with what he had seen in the hangar.

"What's the game?" he demanded at last.

"I can't guess unless he wants Jardin to get so disgusted that he will give him the plane. Has Frank any money?" asked Ernest.

"He had a present from a friend of ours when we came," said Bill, "but most of that has been frittered away. Besides that, he hasn't a cent although he goes strutting around as though he had a little private wad to draw on. But I know he hasn't any. Where would he get money? His folks have only their army pay."

"It surely is funny about that plane," said Ernest. "I never saw a chap so crazy about flying, but he can't expect to get a plane like that for nothing, and yet what you saw looks suspiciously as though he was up to some scheme. What sort of a chap was he at home?"

"Not bad," replied Bill generously. "There was a lot of things I didn't like about him, but I never suspected he would do anything underhanded. Why, he might kill Jardin, monkeying that way with the plane!"

"He is determined not to harm him," said Ernest. "Everything that has happened to the plane has been of a nature that has made it impossible to get it off the ground. So Jardin is safe for the present at least. I think I will manage to secrete myself in that hangar to-morrow morning. I don't believe we had better tell anyone about this, Bill; it would stir up such a fuss. The plane is in perfect order now. I saw Tom a little while ago and he has it tuned up to perfection. In the meantime I think I will seek our friend Jardin and sound him a little. Later I will drop in." He strolled off in the direction of the billiard room where Jardin was usually to be found, and Bill went to his own room and tried to read. The thought that in a short time Lee, good, honest, loyal Lee, would be on his way to prison, a convicted thief, was more than he could bear. The print danced before his eyes. He heaved a sigh of relief when a tap on the door was followed by the entrance of Ernest.

"The plot thickens," he said, closing the door carefully and glancing about to assure himself they were alone. "I have had a long talk with young Jardin and it was very mystifying. You are mistaken about Frank, I think. He must have a bank account or something of the sort, because he has actually offered to buy that plane. I suspect he has offered very little for it, because Jardin would not tell me the price. But the deal is good as closed. Jardin is going to get a new machine, and Frank is to pay him for this one to-morrow."

Bill was silent for a long time. "I don't know what it all means," he said finally. "Something queer has happened to me that worries me. I wonder—do you think—no, it couldn't be."

"Probably it couldn't," agreed Ernest, "but I can't think before you explain what to think about."

"It was a letter from my dad," explained Bill, and went on to tell him about the watch that was in the pawnshop in his name. And then, because he had a good start, he told Ernest about Lee.

"That pawnshop affair may have something to do with Frank," said Ernest, "but you can't connect him with that robbery. That is too big and too serious. Six hundred dollars, you say?"

"I think that was what they told me," said Bill. "No, of course Frank has nothing to do with that, and I know Lee is perfectly innocent of it too. I just about go crazy when I think about it."

"It is terrible," said Ernest, deeply troubled.

For a long while they sat talking things over, but were finally interrupted by the entrance of Frank, who came bursting noisily into the room, throwing his cap across the bed and tearing off his coat.

"Taps going to sound!" he said.

"I don't have to go to bed until I want to," said Ernest. "Will it disturb you boys if I stay awhile?"

"Don't mind me!" said Frank. He took off his stock, and sat down on his bed with his back to them.

"I never did show you the pictures of my folks, did I?" asked Bill of Ernest. He went over to the lockers.

"Darn these lockers," he laughed. "They are exactly alike. I never know which is mine."

"Yours is next the window," said Frank, "and mine is always locked."

"They are both locked now, as it happens," said Bill. He went over to the dresser and picked up a key. "That doesn't look like mine," he said, squinting at it.

"Mine is in my pocket," said Frank.

Bill took the key and opened the locker. He tipped up a corner of the tray and felt under it, drawing out a square photograph case.

"Our folks fitted us out just alike as to kit bags and toilet sets and photograph cases," said Bill, coming over toward the light with the case. It slipped out of his hand as he spoke and he made a grab for it, catching it by one corner. A photograph and a long envelope fluttered to the floor.

"This isn't—" said Bill, then stopped and glanced at Frank who was lying on his back on the bed with both legs in the air, unfastening his puttees. With trembling fingers Bill seized the paper and scanned it. He took one look at its contents and for a moment stood as though turned to stone.

He passed a shaking hand across his forehead, then in a terrible voice he cried:

"Anderson, you—you—you thief, I've got you! Oh, you dog, I've got you!"

He choked and took a step toward Frank who had bounded to his feet.

"Stop!" cried Ernest. "Stop, Bill! What does this mean?"

"The envelope!" cried Bill, violently striking the paper in his hand. "The envelope! And the money! The money Lee is going to prison for!"

"No such thing!" cried Frank, finding his tongue. "That money is mine!"

"Here is the paymaster's endorsement on the envelope," cried Bill furiously. "You stole it—stole it and somehow put the blame on Lee. And then you took his present!"

He struck away Ernest's restraining hand.

"Give me that money!" cried Frank. "I found that envelope; that's all there is to that! The money is mine. Give it to me!"

"Yours?" said Bill. "Well, you won't get it!" and he thrust the long envelope full of bills into Ernest's grasp.

With a muttered word, Frank made a leap for it and Bill met him half way. Bill parried the blow that Frank launched as he realized that the money was out of his grasp, and in another instant they were fighting silently and desperately. Both were furiously angry, but Frank was desperate. Ruin stared him in the face. He was too stunned to realize that the game was up, his hand played out, and he fought with a primitive impulse to down the person who had trapped him.

That Bill had changed the trunks around when the storm was raging and that the keys were identically alike never occurred to either of them. Bill's mind was a blank save for the one overwhelming thought that he had found the envelope that would free Lee.

Frank's mind was chaos. A wild and whirling fury at Bill, at himself for carelessly keeping the money in the envelope although its hiding place back of the photograph seemed absolutely safe, at fate for playing him such a trick, the thought of exposure—everything was mixed into a poisonous potion which filled his brain and of which his soul drank. He leaped upon Bill and tried to throttle him. He fought with the strength of ten. Somehow both boys seemed to feel the need for silence. Except for the quick intake of their labored breathing, there was no sound save the scuffle of Bill's shoes and the impact of their blows.

When Frank clinched and tried to gouge, Bill in self-defence dropped his sparring and resorted to the Indian tricks taught him by Lee. He took joy in the thought that the person who had taught him such clever modes of self-defence was now to be benefitted by them.

Frank went down like a rock, and Bill, still holding him helpless, said panting, "Will you give up?"



CHAPTER XII

"Let me up!" cried Frank, the veins standing out on his purple forehead as he struggled vainly under Bill's grasp. "You Injun fighter you, give me a white man's chance and I'll fight you square!"

"I don't intend to fight you at all," said Bill. "I don't fight with fellows like you. And I don't intend to let you beat me up. If you promise to sit there in that chair and make a clean breast of it, I will let you up."

"There is nothing to tell," said Frank. "Lee must have put that money and that envelope in my trunk. I don't see what you are going to do about it."

"Thank goodness there was a witness of the way you acted when I found it!" exclaimed Bill. He stood up, and Frank scrambled to his feet. He watched Bill furtively until he glanced aside, then he made a mad lunge toward him. Bill was too quick for him and once more Frank, sobbing with rage, went crashing to the floor.

As Bill stood over him, he glanced at Ernest, who had been an interested observer.

"What are we going to do with him?" he asked.

"This," said Ernest. He pulled a quantity of very strong waxed cord from his pocket. It was some he sometimes had need of in fixing his plane.

With a quick twist he had a loop around Frank's ankles, and then, dragging the resisting boy to his feet, he jammed him down on a chair and proceeded to fasten him neatly to it.

"Now," he said, "what next?"

"Next is to save Lee from Leavenworth," said Bill. "Mother says he will kill himself if ever he gets there. He can't stand the disgrace. If you will stick around and watch this fellow, I will go down and see about sending the telegram."

"You had better stay here, and I will go," offered Ernest. "It is too late for you underclass fellows to be out in the corridor, and I can go down and rush the message. I have a pull with the telephone boy. Write your message."

"Don't do it; you will ruin me!" cried Frank.

Bill stared. "Ruin you; ruin you? What do you mean?"

"Why, you know what this will mean to me if it gets back on the Post. What's Lee, anyhow? Just a half-breed private! Let him take his medicine!"

Bill paled and Ernest made an involuntary motion as though he was going to strike the coward down. Bill controlled himself with an effort.

"He is worth more—his little finger is worth more than your whole body. He is the finest chap I know. And the next time you call him half-breed I will lick you. He is justly proud of the American Indian blood in him. Oh, you aren't worth talking to!"

He scribbled something on a pad and gave it to Ernest, who disappeared with it. Instead of returning in a few minutes, it was almost an hour before he stuck his head in the door and beckoned Bill into the corridor.

The boys had not spoken during his absence.

"Wires all down," he said briefly. "The storm has destroyed all lines of communication. And they say there are wash-outs all along the lines of railroads. Also we are under quarantine. Hope you don't mind what I did. I went to the principal and told him the whole thing, and offered to take you and Frank out to Sill in my plane. I am perfectly capable of making a flight ten times that long, and as you know I am a licensed pilot. Unless a new storm comes up, the air is perfect for flying, and we can start at daybreak. What do you say?"

"Do you mean to tell me old Prexy will let us go?" demanded Bill.

"Surely! He is a good old chappie when he has to rise to an occasion and I should say this was one. Besides, he wants to get rid of Frank. He says he doesn't want him in the school another day, and if he is here he will put him in close confinement. And this affair really does not come within the school discipline, so the old dear is willing to let you take Frank and that precious envelope back to Sill. And the only way we can make it is by air."

"Oh, it is the greatest luck in the world!" cried Bill. "This is the reason mother let me off my promise. That plane of yours holds three, doesn't it?"

"Easily!" said Ernest.

"Don't say a word to Frank until we are ready to go," Bill suggested.

"Well, you can't leave him trussed up there in that chair all night," said Ernest. "We all need to sleep. I never fly unless I have had a good supper and a good sleep afterwards. It is the only way to keep a clear head and steady nerve."

Between them they lifted Frank, who in sullen silence refused to stand or use his legs, over on one of the beds, and again tied him securely. When they were sure that he could not escape, and yet was able to move sufficiently to keep from being cramped, Bill tumbled into his own bed and Ernest went off in the direction of his own room, stopping on his way to thank the principal for his permission. Then, with a last look at the sky he set his alarm clock, and in a second was fast asleep.

Before Bill realized that he had really shut his eyes, he felt Ernest shaking him, and rolled over to see Frank, still bound, glaring at him in sullen fury.

"Almost daylight," said Ernest. "I have some breakfast ready over at the Grill. No one is up, so we can bring Frank right along."

"What are you up to?" demanded Frank as Bill commenced to dress, hastily donning his heaviest underclothes. "I am sick of this fooling. You try to take me out of this room and I will yell so I will bring every teacher in the building!"

"Good for you!" said Ernest. "Forewarned is forearmed." He arranged a gag which effectually prevented Frank from making a sound and, loosening his feet, they started toward the door. But scenting punishment, Frank let himself go suddenly limp, and Bill had to put the screws on, as he expressed it, by applying one of the hand holds that Lee had taught him. After that the prisoner walked.

As they silently passed the office the stern face of the principal of the school suddenly appeared. He made a gesture and the three boys stopped. Then for a long minute he looked at Frank.

"Good-bye," he said solemnly. "I pray that you will wake to a realization of what you have done. You have been a thief; you have willingly allowed a good young man to bear punishment for your crime, and you are now about to endanger the lives of two of your mates, who are willing to take the risk in order to save the innocent. If you are mercifully permitted to make good this wicked crime, arouse yourself, Anderson, and resolve to be a different boy." He turned as though he could say no more, and with a warm handclasp for each of the others, closed the door.

"I bet he has been up all night," whispered Ernest.

They found a hot breakfast at the Grill, and just as the pitch darkness gave way to a pale streak of dawn, they cut across the campus and reached the hangar.

As they switched on the lights, Ernest's beautiful plane seemed to sparkle with preparedness. He went over it bolt by bolt, nuts, screws, wires, and wings passing under his careful and critical eye. He looked at and tested the tension of the wires, the swing of the rudder, the looseness of the ailerons. Satisfied at last that everything was perfectly in tune, he turned and gave a critical glance at Frank.

"He is going to freeze," he said. "You go up to the gym and in my locker you will find another coat and safety helmet."

Bill started on a run. It was growing light fast, and it was time they were on their way. Frank suddenly found his tongue.

"You have got to tell me what you are trying to do with me," he said. All the bluster had gone from his voice, and he watched Ernest with worried eyes. "It is not fair the way you are acting. What are you going to do?"

"You may as well know now," said Ernest. "I think myself it is fair to tell you. We are going to fly to Fort Sill and save Lee from the trip to Leavenworth. If we have good luck, we have just about time to make it. That storm last night blew half the telephones down, and we are under such strict quarantine that we couldn't get away from here any other way.

"And if we could there is no time. Of course if we could telegraph, it would fix things all right. But we have got to hurry. Mrs. Sherman writes that your victim will never allow himself to go to Leavenworth. The Indians are proud, you know, and we are making this flight perhaps to save a life. I don't envy you when you get there, young chap!"

"I won't go!" said Frank in a low voice. "If you take me up, I will spill us all out of the plane."

"You can't do it, you know," said Ernest, laughing. "This plane doesn't spill as easily as all that, and if you go to talking like that we will tie you up. I think we will anyway."

Frank came close to his side. "Have a heart, will you?" he said. "I did take that money, and I did pawn my watch in Bill's name, but I will write it all down, if you won't try to take me back."

"More news," said Ernest. "We didn't know about the watch. I think you are badly needed back there at Fort Sill."

He turned to adjust something, dismissing Frank as though he was not there. They could hear Bill trotting rapidly down the campus. A short heavy length of iron pipe lay close to Frank's foot. He stooped, picked it up and made a lunge for Ernest. Ernest turned in time to see the bar descending and threw up his arm. The bar struck it with sickening force and the boy reeled back, both bones in the forearm broken. His right arm dangling loosely at his side, Ernest leaped on his assailant and threw him to the ground as Bill came up.

"Help me!" he panted, his face pale with pain. Once more they bound Anderson, and then put Ernest's arm in rough splints.

"Well, this ends it!" said Bill gloomily. He dropped down on a bench and pressed his face in his hands.

Frank grinned. He was desperate and almost crazy with worry and despair and remorse. He had not meant to hurt Ernest badly; he thought a good crack would disturb him and he would have a chance to coax or wriggle out of the terrible trip before him. He was called to the present and his surroundings by hearing Ernest's voice.

"Ends it? Not at all! We will go right ahead."

"You can't drive with one hand," said Bill sadly.

"No, but you can and will," replied Ernest grimly.

"What?" cried Bill.

"He can't drive!" cried Frank. "It will be suicide and murder to let him try. He has never been up in a plane in his life. Don't do it; don't do it, I tell you! Don't you know anything, Bill? You will be killed sure as shooting!"

"I am not afraid," said Bill calmly.

"Well, I am!" cried Frank.

"I would be if I were you," scorned Bill. "If I had stolen one man's reputation and broken another man's arm, I would be a little afraid myself!"

"To say nothing of stealing another boy's name!" cut in Ernest.

"What's that?" asked Bill.

"That's another story," said Ernest. "You can hear that some other time. Hustle into your togs now; I want to get to Sill. My arm hurts."

Flying is getting to be such a widespread sport as well as profession that every device possible is being developed for the safety and welfare of airmen and women. So Bill helped Ernest into a leather hood which extended down over the shoulders, and which was softly and warmly lined with wool fleece. Over this went a helmet with a specially heavy padded top and sides built on a heavy leather form with ear cones, adjustable visors, and flaps. Ernest's leather coat could only be worn on one arm on account of the right one which was tightly bandaged against his breast, but Bill buttoned and tied it together as closely as he could.

He then ordered Frank into a similar outfit, which they found in Jardin's car, and rapidly dressed himself in the same manner. He unlatched the great doors and swung them wide, and together they pushed the plane out onto the field, Frank lying tied in the observer's seat. It seemed cruel to tie him in the face of his fear, but they were afraid he would do something desperate.

"Now just a last word," said Ernest, laying a hand on Bill's shoulder. "You won't lose your nerve, will you, old fellow?"

"Of course not!" said Bill. "Let's get off. I have a hunch that we ought to get along. We don't want to have to follow all the way to Leavenworth."

"All right-o, let's be off!" seconded Ernest. "Take the pilot's seat, and I will help you if it is necessary. Good luck, old dear!"

"Here comes Tom and the other fellow," said Bill. "They can hold us."

He climbed into his seat and Ernest sat beside him, nursing his wounded arm. Tom and his helper, boiling with amazement and curiosity, held the machine and turned it to face the wind.

Bill gave his engine plenty of gas, the propellers whirled faster and faster, and when they reached top speed under Bill's accustomed hand, he gave the signal and the men let go. The plane bounded forward, skipping merrily over the field. Bill balanced on one wheel for a moment, then with a thrill of the heart such as he had never known tilted the elevating plane and felt himself rise in the air.

They were off!



CHAPTER XIII

As the plane, responding perfectly to Bill's touch, soared upward, it seemed as though they were rising on gossamer wings out of a well of darkness and mists. They actually rose to greet the sun whose first rays were gilding the tops of the hills. They went up in the very face of the great orb whose light, first striking the upper wings, turned all the delicate wires and cords to gold. How they shone in the clear early sunlight! As the pace increased, Bill felt rather than heard the delicate humming of the wires. Over the roar of the engine he did not know whether he could distinguish a delicate sound or whether it was only a trick of his imagination, but he was so exalted and so thrilled by the wonderful experience through which he was passing that he seemed to hear all sorts of celestial sounds.

Fear fell from him. A new power was born in heart and brain. He felt as uplifted in soul as he was in body. Somehow he longed more than ever to be a good boy; to harbor good thoughts; to do good deeds. When he tried to think of Frank and his ugly black actions, he found that he regarded them through a haze as though they were a long ways away and of little consequence. All was going to be well. It was as though the darkness from which they had risen was a symbol. They were going up, up into the light! Bill knew as well as though some higher power had whispered it to him that there would be a good ending: he did not doubt his ability to do an almost unheard-of thing. His hand was as steady as though he had flown all his life. He was "exalted in spirit," because his goal was a worthy one. Without a question for their own safety, the boys had started on an enterprise filled with dangers, in order to save Lee from false imprisonment and possibly worse. Ernest knew the Indian nature better even than Bill. He knew how impossible it is for them to bear unmerited disgrace and how often they end that disgrace with a bullet or the swift thrust of a knife. He hoped that the white blood that dominated Bill's good friend was strong enough to overcome this trend, but nevertheless he felt that there was not a moment to be lost. So there he sat, only an observer in his well-beloved aeroplane, the broken arm throbbing with a blinding pain, while Bill—young Bill who had never been nearer to flying than the warping of a wing and the sailing on one wheel over the field—sat in the pilot's seat, grave and intent, and guided their swift flight.

But ah, who could tell the thoughts that all unbidden coursed through the mind of the culprit lying bound and muffled in the rear seat? So intently were the eyes of his spirit bent inward on the dark and whirling horrors they found there that the eyes of his body were blind to the wonders of the young day. He lay where they had placed him, staring blindly through his goggles straight up into the great dome above him.

The storm seemed to have washed the very air. It was clear as crystal. A few clouds, thin as gossamer, hung here and there, growing less as a steady breeze sprang up in the wake of the sun and gently dismissed them from the great blue bowl in which they lingered.

When they passed through these fairy clouds, they found them a soft golden mist shot through with rainbow colors. Then emerging, they passed once more into blue space, a space greater than Bill had ever imagined.

How tiny, how frail they were: three boys darting in a man-made machine high above their own realm! What daring! What risks!

Daring, risks? Bill was unable to grasp the meaning of those earth-born words. He felt neither small nor frail. He, Bill Sherman, a boy, was among the conquerors!

At a signal from Ernest he increased the speed and soared upward. It is safer in the higher altitudes, although there is usually a great deal more wind blowing there. In case of any engine trouble, you have more time and a longer distance in which to bring the machine to the gliding angle. Also if you are flying over a city when trouble threatens, you have a chance to find a good landing place.

All of these things Bill had had lectured to him endlessly at Sill, and from both Ernest and Tom at school. But actual experience he had not had. That fact, however, he put resolutely behind him. Just one breath of fear struck him. He had witnessed a tail dive once at Sill, and over and over his mind kept repeating, "Keep the tail a little higher than the head and you won't spin." Ernest smiled to himself as he saw from Bill's manoeuvers as the flight went on that he had stored away all the counsel he had listened to. Many a trained aviator never learned to drive his engine and balance his plane with the cool cleverness and judgment of this young and untried aeronaut. Ernest commenced to relax and enjoy himself. If they had no engine accident, there was no reason to suppose that Bill would wreck the plane.

"Up!" cried Ernest, pointing with his well hand.

Bill responded and the plane again soared aloft.

Here the wind screamed a gale. The plane shot forward, the wires whistling, the engine drumming, the whole light fabric in which they rode quivering. Bill's hand on the wheel grew tense; his faculties seemed on a wire edge. Ernest's guiding hand pointed to the right. Bill was surprised. He had kept good track of his direction by the aid of the air compass and felt sure he was going in the right direction. Nevertheless he turned and, banking his wings and lifting the ailerons, moved smoothly in the direction suggested. Half an hour later Ernest again motioned, this time for a turn to the left.

It was not until days after their arrival at Sill that Ernest thought to tell Bill that the unexpected and seemingly unnecessary deviations from the straight course were merely to try him out. An hour or so later when Ernest saw that they were passing over a strip of country where good landing places seemed plentiful, he indicated a dip and Bill executed it perfectly. He felt proud of himself now, and said, "Tail up, tail up!" repeatedly, as he felt the plane drop earthward. Reaching a lower level, Ernest nodded and they sailed on a straight-away flight, their eyes turned ever to the far-away goal in the west.

Bill was unconscious of the passing time. They had had a heavy and sustaining breakfast, and luncheon was forgotten. There was no time to stop if they had been hungry. But Ernest was thinking of many things.

He carefully scanned the country they were passing over for a landing place. Bill's face was well covered with the flaps of his helmet and the wings of his goggles, but Ernest fancied that the young aviator was pale. He felt that they must land for awhile. Even now they were many hours ahead of the time they would have made on a railroad train. He indicated an upward course, and Bill rose as they raced over a flat and open part of the country. Far ahead there lay what seemed to be an open plain dotted at long intervals with small villages. A pleasant farming district evidently, far from any large city. Ernest was sure that he could get gasoline in any hamlet, and there seemed to be plenty of landing places. The only question remaining was Bill's ability to get down without a smash. Ernest smiled. He was fatalist enough to be willing to risk what had to be risked.

The sun was well in the west. They seemed to be flying straight into the blazing disk when Ernest, pointing to a wide plain far ahead, touched Bill and told him with a gesture to go down and land.

Bill gave a short nod and prepared to obey. There flashed into his head a saying of Tom's, "Anybuddy can fly, but it's the landing that hurts."

Bill felt everything—their safety, his own self-respect and Ernest's confidence in him—rested on this last and different test. He could not conceive of a reason for landing, but Ernest said land, so land it was!

At any rate, his engine was going perfectly, so he was not required to attempt a difficult volplane with a dead engine. It was something to be spared that. Bill picked the likeliest spot in the distant landscape, all immense field with only a few groups of black dots to break its late fall greenness. Bill could not tell the nature of the dots at the height he was flying. They might be bushes or cows. Bill hoped for the latter, and as he came down he saw that he was right. Cows would be likely to scatter, thought Bill, but bushes would be difficult to steer around.

About a hundred feet from the ground he tilted his elevating plane, and the machine, nosing up, glided off at a tangent. Once more making a turn, he came down to the ground, striking it gently, and bobbing along the grassy surface of the field.

The cows scattered all right. When the machine came to a standstill, swaying back and forth like a giant dragonfly, all that remained of the herd was a glimpse of agitated and wildly waving tails galloping off into the second growth which rimmed the pasture.

Ernest, who had taken many long flights, removed his goggles and smiled at the young pilot as he climbed awkwardly over the side and dropped to the ground. His head whirled, and his eyes felt strained out of his head. With fingers that trembled he undid his helmet and pushed off his goggles.

"Well, boy, I may say that I was never so proud of a friend in my life! You have done nobly!"

"What did we land for?" asked Bill. "I don't see as we can afford the time."

"We must take time to get some gas and rest you up a little. Don't you worry, son! You are going to drive all night to-night unless—well, why didn't I think of this before? We are 'way past the path of the storm last night, and—"

"Last night!" interrupted Bill. "Was it only last night? I feel as though it was a week ago."

"I was going to say," resumed Ernest, "that we can send a telegram from somewhere around here, and then we can spend the night at a farmhouse, and go on to-morrow. We can reach there to-morrow night, perhaps earlier."

"I don't approve of that," said Bill. "If my mother thought I was 'up in a balloon, boys,' she would about die of fright."

"She gave you permission," reminded Ernest.

"Yes, but of course she never thought anything like this would happen and honestly I wish you wouldn't! I can drive all night all right. That is, if I can get a little rest," he added, as he sensed his aching muscles and realized the tension he had been under.

"I think about so," said Ernest. "I will look around for a farmhouse. Must be one near on account of all these cows. Oh, goodness! See what's coming!"

Across the field surged a small but excited procession. A lean boy on horseback, without saddle or bridle and guiding the shambling colt he rode by a halter strap, led the van. Behind him, as lean as he, and about seven feet tall, a farmer, whiskered like a cartoon, kept pace easily with the horse. Behind came a roly-poly old lady, her apron strings fluttering in the breeze as she bowled along dragging a fat little girl by each hand. Three dogs barking loudly brought up the rear.

Twenty-five feet from the plane the procession was thrown into confusion by the colt which suddenly discovered what seemed to him to be a giant horsefly, its wings wagging lazily. He had dreamed of just such monsters while snoozing in the shade on hot summer days, but here, oh, here was the creature itself ready to fly up and alight on him!

He did not wait for further investigation, but whirled and left for parts distant where the cows peered through the saplings at the awful intruder in their peaceful pasture. The sod was soft and the young rider, rolling head over heels, was not harmed as he came to a stop close to the boys and sat up, rubbing his red head.

"What's your hurry?" asked Ernest, smiling.

"Nuthin'," said the boy. "Say, is that a airyplane?"

"Sure thing!" replied Ernest. "Do you live near here?"

"Yep!" said the boy. "Let's see you fly in it."

Ernest laughed. "You certainly believe in speeding the parting guest, don't you, young chap? Is this your father coming?"

"Yep! Say, how do you work her?"

Ernest turned to greet the tall farmer. Everything was turning out as he hoped. Not only would the farmer and his roly-poly wife, who presently came up panting, give them supper and a place to rest, but he had a Ford, and on account of the distance from town was always supplied with a large tank full of gas. Ernest gave a sigh of relief. The only danger was from their curiosity. When the thin boy went off to get the colt, and was seen riding furiously away, Ernest knew that, like Paul Revere, he was off to give an alarm and rouse the countryside. He looked at his watch. There should be a full moon later, but Bill was completely tired out and had not yet come into the condition known as second wind. It would take three or four hours to get ready for the rest of the flight.

"What sort of a chap is that boy of yours?" asked Ernest.

"Pig-headed!" said the old lady, speaking for the first time.

"That is not a bad trait," said Ernest, smiling. "I mean can you trust him?"

"Yes, you kin," said his mother. "Webby will do just what he says every time and all the time."

"The woman's right," said the farmer. "I kin trust Web soon as I kin myself."

"Sooner!" said his wife scornfully. "You are the forgittinest feller, and Webby don't never forget. If you want he should go an errant, mister, he'll be back soon."

"Not exactly an errand," said Ernest, and no more would he say until he saw the boy come galloping back to the field. He dismounted a long way off, and came running.

"Your mother and father tell me you can keep your word, and be trusted," said Ernest. "I want you to stand guard over this machine. I don't want you or anyone else to touch it. I want you to keep everyone at least ten feet away. If you will do this, I will either pay you or else take you up for a little flight."

"Wait!" said the boy. He turned and went running back to his colt and, mounting, dashed out of sight. In five minutes he returned bearing a long out-of-date rifle.

"Go ahead and get something to eat," he said. "This ought to fix 'em!"

With a stick he drew a deep scratch in the green grass around the plane. Then he looked with a smile across the field.

"Let 'em come!" he said. "This ought to fix 'em!"

Ernest looked. Mr. Paul Revere Webby had not ridden in vain. They were coming. Coming in Fords, buggies and on horseback. Coming strong.



CHAPTER XIV

Ernest turned to the boy with the rifle who was standing guard over the wonderful, strange thing that had alighted in his father's meadow, and was satisfied. Cool, clear, honest blue eyes stared back and met his gaze fairly.

"Don't you be feared," said the boy. "They won't come apast that scratch. You kin trust me. Ma and Pa trusts me with the roan colt."

"The one you were riding?" asked Ernest.

"Naw, not that," the boy laughed. "You git on, less'n you want to answer four million questions. You kin leave her with me. They won't come apast that scratch, and I kin skeer 'em off with this. They know I kin shoot."

He patted the long, lean rifle lying along his arm, and Ernest knew that in truth he could not leave the airplane in safer hands.

He followed Bill and the farmer's family across the slope, Frank lounging along beside him. They did not talk. Frank staggered as he walked, he was so tired, and Ernest, who was accustomed to long flights, was silent too. The pain in his arm was about all he could bear, and he did not feel in the mood for talking to the fellow who had injured him. So they moved silently across the soft sod, the farmer and his wife talking busily to Bill. The two children and the three dogs ran and frolicked in the rear. From the distant second growth the herd gazed out, still suspicious. They had almost forgotten to chew their cuds!

The roly-poly farmer's wife gave them a feast. Home-cured ham and home-laid eggs and corn pone and jam and jelly and cake and molasses and all sorts of good things besides, including cream to drink—real cream, all blobby on the sides of the glass. Bill thought he would never get enough to eat, and even Frank consumed about enough for two boys. As soon as the meal was over, Ernest made Bill go and lie down on Webby's bed. Frank was given the narrow horsehair sofa in the stuffy parlor, but Ernest knew that Bill must sleep in an airy room, and the parlor had not been opened since the war of '60 to judge by the musty closeness of it. Ernest himself was in too much pain to rest so he sat and talked aviation with the farmer for a few minutes and then they went down to the lot to take a look at the machine. The farmer's wife had stacked her dishes and was there before them.

Not even his mother was allowed inside the scratch by the important and faithful Webby. He stood guard beside the machine, enjoying the proudest moment of his life. In after years, when Webby, goaded on by that fateful landing, had gained the highest rung of fame's ladder, his triumph was little compared to that clear sunset time in the pasture when he stood guard over the wonder-car that had come from the sky with its pilot and passengers scarcely older than himself.

When Ernest approached, the crowd surged forward, but Webby sternly drove them back.

There were growls from the outsiders, who yearned to step over the danger line and look and handle and if possible go off with a bit of wire or string or what not, as a keepsake. But Webby was adamant, although he was obliged to make dates for the following day with three boys who insisted on fighting him out of revenge.

One glance at the plane assured Ernest that everything was exactly as he had left it. He thanked Webby and asked him what he would like best—a payment of money or a flight.

"Druther fly," said Webby promptly, laying down his rifle and starting toward the car.

"I can't fly it myself now," said Ernest, "but when the other boy comes down from the house he will give you a little turn. If we had time, we could stay here for a day or so. This is the finest field for landing that I have seen in a long time. But we are in a great hurry, and all we can do for you to-night is to give you a short spin."

When Bill came down, his eyes heavy with sleep, he found Webby restlessly pacing up and down before the car, and a silent, attentive crowd of natives waiting to see what was going to happen. Webby's parents did not know enough about aviation to feel any fear for their son, and watched with unspeakable delight as Ernest with his one arm and Bill with his two sound ones, pulled the plane around to face the wind, settled Webby in his seat and started the engine.

"Don't go more than fifty feet above the ground, and keep over the field if you can," whispered Ernest in Bill's ear.

"Aren't you going up?" asked Bill.

"No use; you can manage it all right," said Ernest, "and I will stay here and keep an eye on Frank. He needs watching. He would lose himself in the swamp for a cent. He is in a bad state of mind. I hope he is, too. Perhaps he will come to realize what he has done."

"I hope so," said Bill. "Can't we leave as soon as I give that kid a turn? I want to get along. It seems as though we were hanging around here an awful while."

"Land over by the bars if you can," said Ernest. "It will be fun to see this outfit scamper over, and besides it will be closer to the gasoline tank."

"All right," replied Bill, tuning up the engine. He skimmed along the field while a wild, shrill shout went up from the observers. They commenced to trail excitedly after, and stood hopping up and down and tossing their hats in excitement as the graceful car left the ground and sailed smoothly into the air. Bill found that flying, rising and lighting the second time was much easier than the first. He had lost what little awkwardness he had had in the beginning, and the machine moved with a smooth freedom. He wished that he had eyes in the back of his head so he could see Webby. But if he had seen Webby, he would not have laughed. Webby, watching the old familiar earth drop away, felt exalted; he felt as though he had suddenly become a creature of some finer, rarer place. When Webby told about it next day, he said, "I felt like I was a chicken just hatched fum out an aig," but Webby said that because words were hard things and difficult to handle. He really thought of angels and made up his mind then and there to be a great man.

Bill made the landing on the other side of the field as Ernest had suggested, and he and Webby sat in the car and laughed as the audience streaked across to them. Webby shook just a little when he stood once more on solid earth, and he was more silent than ever. But when Ernest came up he said in a low tone: "Say, ain't there books about this here?"

"What you want is a magazine," said Ernest, "and I will send you mine as soon as I have read it."

"Every time it comes?" asked Webby. "Say, you are good!"

"That's all right," said Ernest, "only take one piece of advice. The flying will keep. Just you keep on going to school. You will need all sorts of learning, especially mathematics."

"Ho; I kin eat figgers!" boasted the boy.

"That's good," said Ernest, shaking his hand. "Now, good-bye. I have left my address with your mother. If you will write me next week, I will send you that magazine."

They said good-bye to the kindly farmers, having filled up with gas, settled Frank in his seat, and arose just as a great white moon showed itself over the trees.

Once more they were off. With good luck they would reach their destination early the following day. Bill was tired, deadly tired; but he thought of the pain Ernest must be suffering from his wounded arm and settled himself to his task with dogged determination. He had never been up after dark, and the sensation was a new one. He was glad to have Ernest beside him. As they rose, a couple of enormous birds sailed out of their way. Eagles or buzzards; he did not know enough of the country to be able to tell which. He was conscious of a feeling of dizziness and fatigue. Everything he had ever heard about side slipping, tail spins, nose dives—in fact, all the accidents that might befall an aviator passed through his mind in gruesome procession. He looked down at the compass, now beginning to show its luminous dial, and saw that they were really going in the right direction. As he looked down, he commenced to feel a stranger to the many levers and knobs before him. He knew them all, knew them like a book; at least he had. Now they were slipping, slipping away from him. He could not remember what they were for.

He felt rather than saw Ernest motion him upward. As he climbed through the cutting air, he plunged into a dense bank of cloud. The thought flashed over him that if the plane turned over there in unlighted space, he would not be able to right it again. As they passed once more into the clear air, it was as though they were plunged into a bath of liquid silver. The moon, immense and coldly luminous, had risen and hung in the sky huge and pale. If the morning sun had turned every wire and blade to gold, the moon silvered the whole plane. Space about them stretched off dim and threatening. Bill shivered. His clutch on the wheel loosened and the engine coughed twice.