One mild summer morning in 1910, Ostrom Sperbeck, a professional aviator, stood on the edge of a broad meadow belonging to the merchant, Gabriel Hamilton, closely watching the actions of Harvey Hamilton, the seventeen-year-old son of his friend, to whom the lithe, smooth-faced German was giving his first lessons in flying an aeroplane.

It was on the return voyage from Naples to New York of the Italian steamer Duca degli Abruzzi, that Mr. Hamilton and his boy made the acquaintance of the genial foreigner, who was on his way to the United States to take part as a competitor in several of the advertised meets in different parts of the country. The acquaintance thus begun ripened into a strong friendship and the Professor became the guest of the merchant, who was a commuter between his country residence and the metropolis.

The youth, like thousands of American boys, was keenly interested in the art of flying in the air, and the Professor was glad to undertake to give him instruction. The two went by train to Garden City, Long Island, where the elder found his new Farman biplane awaiting his arrival. Harvey mounted to the aluminum seat in front of the gasoline tank and engine, while his conductor placed himself a little below him in front, where his limbs had free play. The machine was pointed to the southwest and Harvey enjoyed to the full his first ride above the earth. His attention was divided between the wonderful moving panorama below and studying every action of the expert, who was as much at home on his elevated perch as when seated in the smoking room of the Duca degli Abruzzi, chatting with his friends. He noted the movements of the feet which controlled the vertical rudder at the rear, and the lever beside which the Professor sat and elevated or depressed the horizontal rudder on the outrigger in front, thus directing the ascent and descent of the machine.

A thrilling surprise awaited Harvey when, after two stops on the way for renewing the gasoline and oil, they reached the merchant’s home. Professor Sperbeck wished to make a preliminary tour through the country which he had now visited for the first time, and he left his order at Garden City for the construction of a new biplane. The one that had been finished was sold to Mr. Hamilton, who made a birthday present of it to his son, it being a question as to who was the more pleased, Harvey or his parent.

Omitting other preliminaries for the present, let us return to the smooth, sloping meadow where under the eye of the German expert, the young aviator was receiving his first instruction in the fascinating diversion.

“I know that you did not let an action of mine elude you,” said the Professor, “and you feel that you understand pretty much all.”

Standing by the biplane, the smiling Harvey nodded his head.

“I have a dim suspicion in that direction.”

“You can never make yourself an aviator without self-confidence, but you may have too much of it. In that case you become reckless and bad results are certain to follow. Nor can you learn by simply observing the conduct of another. You have a motto in your country about experience.”

“It is Benjamin Franklin’s,—‘Experience keeps a dear school but fools will learn in no other,’” said Harvey, atremble with eagerness.

“Quite true; well, if you please, you may seat yourself.”

The lad stepped forward and sat down, his feet resting on the cross lever below, while he grasped the upright control lever on his right.

“Suppose you wish to leave the ground and mount into the air?”

“I pull this lever back; the motion turns up the horizontal rudder out there in front and the auxiliary elevating rudder in the rear; when I have gone as high as I wish, I hold the rudder level, and when I wish to descend, I dip it downward.”

“Nothing could be more simple; and when you desire to change your direction to the right or left?”

“I work this lever with my feet, as we do in tobogganing.”

“You have two smaller levers on the left.”

“They control the spark and throttle.”

“We won’t enter further into the construction of the machine at present. I am sure you were born to be a successful aviator.”

The quiet assurance of these words vastly strengthened the confidence of Harvey Hamilton. He knew the Professor believed what he said, and who could be more capable of correct judgment? Then, as if fearing he had infused too much courage into the youth, the instructor added:

“So far everything seems easy and simple. We were fortunate on our way here, in having the most favorable weather conditions, but you are sure sooner or later to run into complex conditions. Columns of cold air are forever pressing downward and warm ones pushing upward. This constant conflict creates air holes and all sorts of twists and gyrations that play the mischief with aviators, unless they know all about them.

“You have seated yourself, but don’t try to start till I give the word. I wish first to put you through a little drill. I shall call certain conditions and you must do the right thing on the instant. Are you ready?”

“Fire away,” replied Harvey, on edge in his expectancy.

“Ascend!”

Like a flash the youth pulled the control lever back.

“Too far; lessen the angle.”

He promptly obeyed.

“Volplane!”

Harvey pushed the lever forward, but not too far.

“Quite well; go to the right.”

The youth started to shift the rear rudder with his feet and smiled.

“That is hard work.”

“Why?”

“Because of the gyroscopic action of the propeller; it is much better to turn to the left, though I suppose one can manage a long turn to the right.”

“The Wright brothers have no trouble in swinging that way.”

“Because they use two propellers, revolving in opposite directions, thus neutralizing that gyroscope business.”

“You are tipping to the left!” shouted the Professor.

On the instant the aviator swung the control lever to the right.

“You are caught in a fierce tempest.”

Since Harvey could not well make the right evolution he replied:

“I should dive into it.”

“That’s right; never run away from a maelstrom. I suppose you feel competent to make a voyage through the air?”

“I don’t see why I cannot,” replied Harvey; “I studied everything you did on our way from Garden City and I think I know what to do in any emergency.”

“Admitting that that is possible—which it isn’t—it is all-important that before you leave the earth you should get acquainted with your machine.”

“Ask me about its parts and see whether I am not.”

“That isn’t what I mean; you got that information from the answers to my inquiries at the factory at Garden City, which I asked for your benefit. You must be as familiar with the aeroplane as with your pony which you have ridden for years and feel as much at home in your seat as if you had occupied it for months. It will take time to acquire that knowledge.”

“I am at home now,” replied Harvey, who could not help thinking his friend was over-cautious.

“Your danger is of having too much self-confidence. Remember and do exactly what I tell you to do and nothing else.”

The pupil assured his instructor of the strictest obedience.

“Very well.”

The Professor stepped to the rear, grasped a blade of the propeller and gave it a vigorous swing. That set the motor going with its deafening racket, but it was so throttled that the machine stood still for a minute or two, Sperbeck holding back all he could with one hand until the pressure became too great to resist. Then the aeroplane began moving forward, with fast increasing speed. When it had traveled a hundred yards, Harvey grasped the lever ready to point the front rudder upward upon receiving the order from the Professor. The noise of the motor would have drowned the loudest voice, and the youth kept glancing around for the expected signal. But it was not made. Instead, the Professor motioned with one hand for him to circle to the left. Harvey was disappointed but did not hesitate for an instant. He came lumbering and lurching over the sward, and, shutting off the motor, halted a few paces in front of his instructor, who had lighted a cigarette.

“It is best to cut grass for two or three days,” explained the teacher.

“It surely will not take that long,” replied Harvey in dismay.

“I trust not, but no ascent will be attempted to-day.”

Harvey forced himself to smile, though he made a comical grimace.

“Put me through the paces; I’m bound to learn this business or break a trace.”

Several spectators had gathered on the edge of the field and were watching the actions of the two with the aeroplane. They would have come nearer had not Harvey warned them by a gesture not to do so. He did not mind their enjoying the sight, for they could do that when a little way off as well as if closer, but they were likely to get in his way, and hinder matters.

Again and again the biplane went awkwardly forward on its three small wheels with their rubber tires. The field contained ten or twelve acres, thus giving plenty of space for maneuvering. Once he came within a hair of running into the fence, because as it seemed to him the machine did not respond with its usual promptness, but he showed rapid improvement and the Professor complimented him on his success.

“I’m playing the part of a navigator of a prairie schooner,” said the youth, “though they are drawn by animals instead of being propelled by wind. I suppose, Professor, that before the summer is over you will let me try my wings?”

“That depends upon how well you get on with your first lessons.”