"Let's tell her now--right now--" said Bill, his voice brimming with
laughter.
"I don't want to hear."
"Yes, you do--all together: one--two--three!
You--are--going--to--learn--to--fly!"
Dorothy sprang to her father's chair and caught his arm. "Will you
really let me, Dad?" she cried in delight.
"Mr. Bolton says that Bill is an A-1 instructor--and he claims that
flying is no more dangerous than sailing twenty-footers in a nor'easter,
so I suppose--"
"Oh--you _darling_!" Dorothy flung her arms about his neck.
"Here--here--" cried Mr. Dixon. "You're ruining my collar, and my
cigar--"
"Have another," suggested Mr. Bolton. "I'd willingly ruin boxes of
cigars if I had a daughter who'd hug me that way!"
"Aren't you nice!" She turned about and bestowed a second affectionate
embrace on that gentleman. "That is because you aren't quite as mean as
your son--he's the limit!"
"Never slang your instructor," sang out Bill. "That's one of the first
rules of the air."
"Seriously, Dorothy," her father interposed. "This is a big
responsibility Bill is taking--and I want your word that you'll do just
as he says. No more running off and smashing up a plane as you did the
_Scud_ this afternoon!"
"All right, Dad. I promise. But what am I to learn in? Bill says that
the Amphibian is too heavy--and she's not equipped with dual controls."
Mr. Dixon lit a fresh cigar. "I see that you've already started your
flight training."
"Bill explained the procedure to me on our way up here this afternoon.
But what are we going to do for a plane?"
"Bill has some scheme, I believe."
"Oh, I know," she decided. "Bill shall pick me out a nice little plane
and--"
"I shall pay for it," said her father grimly. "Nothing doing. When you
have won your wings--well--we shall see. Until then, you and Bill will
have to figure without financial help from your fond parent."
"That's fair enough," agreed Mr. Bolton.
"O.K. with me, too," echoed Bill. "I happen to have an old _N-9_, a Navy
training plane, down at the shipyard near the beach club, that will do
nicely. I was down there this afternoon having her pontoon removed. I
want to equip her with landing gear so I can house her up here. The
Amphibian uses up too much gas to go joy-hopping in."
A maid appeared on the doorstep.
"Mr. Dixon wanted on the phone, please," she announced, and waited while
that gentleman preceded her into the house.
A moment later Mr. Dixon was back on the terrace.
"The bank's been robbed!" he cried. "Sorry, gentlemen, but I've got to
hustle down there just as soon as possible."
"This way!" called Bill, springing down the steps to the garden. "My
car's out here--come on!"
"That young chap can keep his head," thought Mr. Dixon as he ran beside
his daughter and Mr. Bolton. "It would take a lot to fluster him."
Then they came upon him, backing slowly up the drive, both doors
swinging wide so they could jump in the car without his stopping.
"Which bank, Mr. Dixon?"
Bill had the car in the road now and was racing toward the village.
"First National--Main Street, next the Town Hall. I'm president, you
know."
"I didn't know. But I'm glad to hear it."
"How's that?"
"You should have a drag with the traffic cops. We are doing an even
sixty now--and it would be a bad time to get a ticket."
Mr. Dixon grasped the door-handle as Bill skidded them into a cross road
with the expertness of a racing driver. "Just get us there, that's all,"
he gasped. "The chief himself phoned me. I didn't wait to hear
details--but from what I gathered, the hold up men got clean away before
the police discovered the robbery. But time is always a factor in a case
of this kind, so don't worry about traffic rules."
"I won't," said Bill and fed his powerful engine still more gas.
Along the straight stretch of Oenoke Avenue they sped, with Bill's foot
still pressing the accelerator. They flashed past the white blur of the
Episcopal Church and on down the hill into Main Street and the little
town.
The car's brakes screamed and Bill brought them to a stop on the edge of
the crowd of pedestrians and vehicles that blocked further progress.
"D'you want us to wait here?" asked Mr. Bolton.
"No--come along," returned his friend, jumping to the sidewalk. "We'll
learn the worst together."
_Chapter VI_