  While Griff, who handled an airplane expertly, was executing dives and slips, barrel rolls and figure eights, and a loop or so to demonstrate his skill, Bob, in the rear cockpit seat, wondered whether Griff was trying to frighten him. That was not his purpose, Bob decided, and he was more convinced when Griff, with a grin, turned, after waggling the stick and holding both hands up beside his head—the signal to “take control.” Bob nodded. Under Lang’s tuition, in several airplanes, during tests, Bob had been permitted to handle the stick, rudder and throttle. He knew the elementary movements of straight flying and had some of “the feel of the air” which comes to any person who has the flying sense: that “feel of the air” is akin to knowing what the ship is going to do and, of course, sensing how to meet its various tendencies. When, during a climb, with too steep an angle, the controls begin to get “loggy” for an example, the born pilot, or the trained fellow with his air-sense developed, knows instinctively that the ship is about to stall, and automatically drops the nose and picks up flying speed. For awhile Bob, flying straight, or banking and turning, remained near the small flying field of the plant. He knew the signals with which a flying instructor guides his pupil, and, handling the dual control section in his own hands, and with his feet, he made simple maneuvers under Griff’s direction, and seemed to please Griff by the quickness with which he caught the corrections signaled to him when he over-banked, or let the ship skid too long without catching the skid. The trial was over all too soon, and as Griff took over to shoot the field and set down, the most ticklish part of flying tactics, Bob felt a trifle sheepish for having suspected him. Griff was, really, quite a pleasant fellow. However, Bob began to think. This sudden affable manner must have some reason behind it. Furthermore, he decided, Griff might be trying to win his confidence through the hidden flattery of telling Bob what a “corking” pilot he would make with a little more training. Bob knew that flying is taught carefully by any self-respecting school, that a thorough ground-school training and many hours of instructed flight will be followed by many solo flights, with intermittent check flights under the instructor’s eyes, before a pilot is considered more than a student. Griff over-flattered. Bob, as he went home, where Al and Lang had preceded him, his cousin having stopped in for dinner, decided that he would accept Griff’s offered friendship with a grain of salt. Al was there, of course, but no confidences were exchanged. Al had already eaten his dinner, with Jimmy-junior, after a fun-filled afternoon during which Jimmy had displayed his airplane models, had supervised many trials while he let his guest wind the sturdy rubber band motors and set the tiny, practicable controls of the toys. Furthermore, he had talked about the Sky Squad idea and had begged to be permitted to join, being air-crazy, as he put it. Al, promising to take the matter up with his brother and with Curt, had said he would do all he could to induce them to agree. He could not broach the matter, however, as Curt, Bob and Lang ate, because Lang was full of the excitement of receiving a telegram from Bob’s and Al’s father, the detective, from a city about fifty miles away, asking Lang to come to the city for a report and a conference. Glancing at Bob, both Curt and Al saw that the older member of the secret membership was disturbed in his mind. Lang would not tell about Griff, as he visited his uncle over Sunday. That was what Bob was thinking, as Al and Curt saw. But Curt, looking at his watch, reminded Lang that he must stop stuffing down the filet of sole, a form of fish steaks of which he was extremely fond, if he expected to “make” the ’bus that would pass the house on the way to the city, and the railway station. “I’m going to fly!” Lang declared, reaching for more fish. “Why not take us, then?” demanded Al. “No. I’m going to borrow Griff’s sport model. More speedy and I want to check before it is turned over to him finally.” “There’d be room for one of us,” Bob spoke up. “No sirree!” and they knew why Lang was so snappish. Bob pushed back his chair as Al and Curt sprang up. Lang, rising with his superior, amused grin at their anxiety, waved them back and kissing his aunt and thanking her for the fish he loved, he departed. “I’m going!” said Bob, and explained excitedly to his mother that he had information of importance. “Lang will tell it,” she said. “Explain to him.” Bob’s face fell, as did Al’s. They were in a box! They could not explain to their mother that they suspected Lang, at the very least, of protecting Griff, a friend but not a desirable one. Whatever their own ideas they were none of them blabbers. Bob ran out on the porch, leaped down the steps, hopped on his bicycle and pedaled down the first side street. He was not entirely sure of his plans, perhaps he half intended to secrete himself in the fuselage of the ’plane, to go on as an unsuspected passenger; possibly he hoped to induce Lang to take him by getting there first. At any rate, as he neared the plant, he was glad he had come. Griff, at the gate, was in close communication with a mysteriously furtive stranger! |
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