A SUMMONS
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!