CHAPTER II—Captain BillHal couldn’t come right over. He had to be fussed over, steamed, dosed, and put to bed so that he would suffer no ill effects from his soaking that evening. But he was over bright and early the next morning. It had rained all night, and was still raining in a quiet, steady downpour, when Hal appeared at the Martin home, dressed in rubbers, raincoat, muffler, and carrying an umbrella to protect him on his long trek from his own front door to his friend’s. Captain Bill would have been startled at the strangely bundled figure of Hal, but he had been warned, and greeted Hal without a blink of an eyelash. In fact, as soon as Hal had been unwrapped from his many coverings, and had spoken to them all, Captain Bill discovered that he was probably going to like this boy after all, and was pleased that his nephew had such good judgment in choosing a friend and companion.They talked that morning, of course, about airplanes, and the boys told how they had been reading about the famous flyers, and of their hopes to be flyers themselves some day. Bill had been a good listener, and had said very little, but after lunch Hal said what had been on his chest for a long time.“Captain Bill, we’ve been doing all the talking. Why don’t you tell us a story?”The Captain laughed. “I think that Bob’s heard all my stories. I’m afraid that they’re a little moth-eaten now. But how about the two of you telling me a story? Some of the things that you’ve been reading so carefully. How about it?”“We can’t tell a story the way you can, old scout,” said Bob. “Anyway, we asked you first.”“All right, I’m caught,” said the Captain. “But I’ll tell you a story only on one condition. Each of you has to tell one too. That’s only fair, isn’t it?”Bob and Hal looked at each other. Hal spoke. “I’m afraid I won’t be able to,” he said, blushing. “I can’t tell stories, I’m sure I can’t.”Captain Bill knew that it would be tactless at that moment to try to convince Hal that he could tell a story. It would only increase the boy’s nervousness, and convince him only more of the fact that he could not spin a yarn. So he said, “Well, we’ll tell ours first, and you can tell yours later. After you hear how bad ours are, you’ll be encouraged.” Then Bill had an idea. “How about having a contest?” he said. “The one who tells the best story gets a prize.”“What prize?” asked Bob quickly.“Now, you take your time. We’ll decide on the prize later. We’ll have to let Pat in on this, too, I suppose, but he’s going to give us some competition. Pat’s a great story teller. I’ll tell my story first. Then Bob can tell his, after he’s had some time for preparation; then Pat will probably want to get his licks in; and Hal will come last. He’ll have the benefit of our mistakes to guide him. How about it?”“All right with me,” said Bob, eagerly. He was keen about the idea.But Hal seemed less enthusiastic. His natural reticence, he felt, would make it torture for him to tell a story. It would be all right just for Bob—and he was even getting well enough acquainted with Captain Bill to tell his story in front of him—but this Pat McDermott—even his name sounded formidable. Captain Bill didn’t give him a chance to say aye, yea, or nay, but went on talking.“I think that we ought to choose subjects that you two know about,” said Bill. “How about stories of the aviators—of Famous Flyers and their Famous Flights?”“Great!” said Bob. “Gee, I want Lindbergh.”“Lindbergh you shall have,” said Captain Bill. “What’s yours Hal?”“I don’t know,” said Hal. “I’ll have to think it over. But—I think that I’d like to take the life of Floyd Bennett—if I may.”“Of course,” said Bill. “I think that I’ll tell about Admiral Byrd—do you think he’d make a good story?”“Marvelous!” said Bob, with his usual enthusiasm. “What’ll we leave for Pat?”“Pat can take whomever he wants to take,” the Captain said. “He’ll have to take what’s left. That’s what he gets for coming late. But what do you say we wait to start the contest when Pat comes?”“Yes, oh, yes, I think that that would be much better,” said Hal, relieved that the ordeal would at least be postponed, even if it could not be avoided altogether. “I think that we ought to wait until Mr. McDermott comes.”The Captain laughed. “Don’t let him hear you call him ‘Mr. McDermott’” he said. “He’s Pat to everybody, and to you, too.”“I’ll try to remember,” said Hal, miserably, thinking of what a complicated world this was.It was still raining outside. The boys and the Captain, seated in the library, or rather, sprawled in the library, could see the streams of rain splash against the windows and run down in little rivers until they splashed off again at the bottom of the pane.Captain Bill yawned and stretched. “Not much to do on a day like this. I’m mighty anxious to get out to the airport as soon as it clears up. What’ll we do?”Bob had an idea. “Couldn’t we sort of sneak one over on Pat?” he said. “Couldn’t we have a story, one not in the contest, now? It wouldn’t count, really, and it would give us a little rehearsal before Pat gets here.”“Who’s going to tell this story?” asked Captain Bill, looking just a bit suspiciously at his nephew.Bob grinned. “Well, I thought that maybe you would. Seeing that you’re the best story-teller anyway.”“Go long with your blarney. But I guess I will tell you one. It will be a sort of prologue to the rest of our stories. It’s about the very first flyers and the very first famous flight.”“The Wrights?” asked Hal.“The Wrights,” said the Captain. “Wilbur and Orville, and their first flight at Kitty Hawk, North Carolina.”
CHAPTER II—Captain BillHal couldn’t come right over. He had to be fussed over, steamed, dosed, and put to bed so that he would suffer no ill effects from his soaking that evening. But he was over bright and early the next morning. It had rained all night, and was still raining in a quiet, steady downpour, when Hal appeared at the Martin home, dressed in rubbers, raincoat, muffler, and carrying an umbrella to protect him on his long trek from his own front door to his friend’s. Captain Bill would have been startled at the strangely bundled figure of Hal, but he had been warned, and greeted Hal without a blink of an eyelash. In fact, as soon as Hal had been unwrapped from his many coverings, and had spoken to them all, Captain Bill discovered that he was probably going to like this boy after all, and was pleased that his nephew had such good judgment in choosing a friend and companion.They talked that morning, of course, about airplanes, and the boys told how they had been reading about the famous flyers, and of their hopes to be flyers themselves some day. Bill had been a good listener, and had said very little, but after lunch Hal said what had been on his chest for a long time.“Captain Bill, we’ve been doing all the talking. Why don’t you tell us a story?”The Captain laughed. “I think that Bob’s heard all my stories. I’m afraid that they’re a little moth-eaten now. But how about the two of you telling me a story? Some of the things that you’ve been reading so carefully. How about it?”“We can’t tell a story the way you can, old scout,” said Bob. “Anyway, we asked you first.”“All right, I’m caught,” said the Captain. “But I’ll tell you a story only on one condition. Each of you has to tell one too. That’s only fair, isn’t it?”Bob and Hal looked at each other. Hal spoke. “I’m afraid I won’t be able to,” he said, blushing. “I can’t tell stories, I’m sure I can’t.”Captain Bill knew that it would be tactless at that moment to try to convince Hal that he could tell a story. It would only increase the boy’s nervousness, and convince him only more of the fact that he could not spin a yarn. So he said, “Well, we’ll tell ours first, and you can tell yours later. After you hear how bad ours are, you’ll be encouraged.” Then Bill had an idea. “How about having a contest?” he said. “The one who tells the best story gets a prize.”“What prize?” asked Bob quickly.“Now, you take your time. We’ll decide on the prize later. We’ll have to let Pat in on this, too, I suppose, but he’s going to give us some competition. Pat’s a great story teller. I’ll tell my story first. Then Bob can tell his, after he’s had some time for preparation; then Pat will probably want to get his licks in; and Hal will come last. He’ll have the benefit of our mistakes to guide him. How about it?”“All right with me,” said Bob, eagerly. He was keen about the idea.But Hal seemed less enthusiastic. His natural reticence, he felt, would make it torture for him to tell a story. It would be all right just for Bob—and he was even getting well enough acquainted with Captain Bill to tell his story in front of him—but this Pat McDermott—even his name sounded formidable. Captain Bill didn’t give him a chance to say aye, yea, or nay, but went on talking.“I think that we ought to choose subjects that you two know about,” said Bill. “How about stories of the aviators—of Famous Flyers and their Famous Flights?”“Great!” said Bob. “Gee, I want Lindbergh.”“Lindbergh you shall have,” said Captain Bill. “What’s yours Hal?”“I don’t know,” said Hal. “I’ll have to think it over. But—I think that I’d like to take the life of Floyd Bennett—if I may.”“Of course,” said Bill. “I think that I’ll tell about Admiral Byrd—do you think he’d make a good story?”“Marvelous!” said Bob, with his usual enthusiasm. “What’ll we leave for Pat?”“Pat can take whomever he wants to take,” the Captain said. “He’ll have to take what’s left. That’s what he gets for coming late. But what do you say we wait to start the contest when Pat comes?”“Yes, oh, yes, I think that that would be much better,” said Hal, relieved that the ordeal would at least be postponed, even if it could not be avoided altogether. “I think that we ought to wait until Mr. McDermott comes.”The Captain laughed. “Don’t let him hear you call him ‘Mr. McDermott’” he said. “He’s Pat to everybody, and to you, too.”“I’ll try to remember,” said Hal, miserably, thinking of what a complicated world this was.It was still raining outside. The boys and the Captain, seated in the library, or rather, sprawled in the library, could see the streams of rain splash against the windows and run down in little rivers until they splashed off again at the bottom of the pane.Captain Bill yawned and stretched. “Not much to do on a day like this. I’m mighty anxious to get out to the airport as soon as it clears up. What’ll we do?”Bob had an idea. “Couldn’t we sort of sneak one over on Pat?” he said. “Couldn’t we have a story, one not in the contest, now? It wouldn’t count, really, and it would give us a little rehearsal before Pat gets here.”“Who’s going to tell this story?” asked Captain Bill, looking just a bit suspiciously at his nephew.Bob grinned. “Well, I thought that maybe you would. Seeing that you’re the best story-teller anyway.”“Go long with your blarney. But I guess I will tell you one. It will be a sort of prologue to the rest of our stories. It’s about the very first flyers and the very first famous flight.”“The Wrights?” asked Hal.“The Wrights,” said the Captain. “Wilbur and Orville, and their first flight at Kitty Hawk, North Carolina.”
Hal couldn’t come right over. He had to be fussed over, steamed, dosed, and put to bed so that he would suffer no ill effects from his soaking that evening. But he was over bright and early the next morning. It had rained all night, and was still raining in a quiet, steady downpour, when Hal appeared at the Martin home, dressed in rubbers, raincoat, muffler, and carrying an umbrella to protect him on his long trek from his own front door to his friend’s. Captain Bill would have been startled at the strangely bundled figure of Hal, but he had been warned, and greeted Hal without a blink of an eyelash. In fact, as soon as Hal had been unwrapped from his many coverings, and had spoken to them all, Captain Bill discovered that he was probably going to like this boy after all, and was pleased that his nephew had such good judgment in choosing a friend and companion.
They talked that morning, of course, about airplanes, and the boys told how they had been reading about the famous flyers, and of their hopes to be flyers themselves some day. Bill had been a good listener, and had said very little, but after lunch Hal said what had been on his chest for a long time.
“Captain Bill, we’ve been doing all the talking. Why don’t you tell us a story?”
The Captain laughed. “I think that Bob’s heard all my stories. I’m afraid that they’re a little moth-eaten now. But how about the two of you telling me a story? Some of the things that you’ve been reading so carefully. How about it?”
“We can’t tell a story the way you can, old scout,” said Bob. “Anyway, we asked you first.”
“All right, I’m caught,” said the Captain. “But I’ll tell you a story only on one condition. Each of you has to tell one too. That’s only fair, isn’t it?”
Bob and Hal looked at each other. Hal spoke. “I’m afraid I won’t be able to,” he said, blushing. “I can’t tell stories, I’m sure I can’t.”
Captain Bill knew that it would be tactless at that moment to try to convince Hal that he could tell a story. It would only increase the boy’s nervousness, and convince him only more of the fact that he could not spin a yarn. So he said, “Well, we’ll tell ours first, and you can tell yours later. After you hear how bad ours are, you’ll be encouraged.” Then Bill had an idea. “How about having a contest?” he said. “The one who tells the best story gets a prize.”
“What prize?” asked Bob quickly.
“Now, you take your time. We’ll decide on the prize later. We’ll have to let Pat in on this, too, I suppose, but he’s going to give us some competition. Pat’s a great story teller. I’ll tell my story first. Then Bob can tell his, after he’s had some time for preparation; then Pat will probably want to get his licks in; and Hal will come last. He’ll have the benefit of our mistakes to guide him. How about it?”
“All right with me,” said Bob, eagerly. He was keen about the idea.
But Hal seemed less enthusiastic. His natural reticence, he felt, would make it torture for him to tell a story. It would be all right just for Bob—and he was even getting well enough acquainted with Captain Bill to tell his story in front of him—but this Pat McDermott—even his name sounded formidable. Captain Bill didn’t give him a chance to say aye, yea, or nay, but went on talking.
“I think that we ought to choose subjects that you two know about,” said Bill. “How about stories of the aviators—of Famous Flyers and their Famous Flights?”
“Great!” said Bob. “Gee, I want Lindbergh.”
“Lindbergh you shall have,” said Captain Bill. “What’s yours Hal?”
“I don’t know,” said Hal. “I’ll have to think it over. But—I think that I’d like to take the life of Floyd Bennett—if I may.”
“Of course,” said Bill. “I think that I’ll tell about Admiral Byrd—do you think he’d make a good story?”
“Marvelous!” said Bob, with his usual enthusiasm. “What’ll we leave for Pat?”
“Pat can take whomever he wants to take,” the Captain said. “He’ll have to take what’s left. That’s what he gets for coming late. But what do you say we wait to start the contest when Pat comes?”
“Yes, oh, yes, I think that that would be much better,” said Hal, relieved that the ordeal would at least be postponed, even if it could not be avoided altogether. “I think that we ought to wait until Mr. McDermott comes.”
The Captain laughed. “Don’t let him hear you call him ‘Mr. McDermott’” he said. “He’s Pat to everybody, and to you, too.”
“I’ll try to remember,” said Hal, miserably, thinking of what a complicated world this was.
It was still raining outside. The boys and the Captain, seated in the library, or rather, sprawled in the library, could see the streams of rain splash against the windows and run down in little rivers until they splashed off again at the bottom of the pane.
Captain Bill yawned and stretched. “Not much to do on a day like this. I’m mighty anxious to get out to the airport as soon as it clears up. What’ll we do?”
Bob had an idea. “Couldn’t we sort of sneak one over on Pat?” he said. “Couldn’t we have a story, one not in the contest, now? It wouldn’t count, really, and it would give us a little rehearsal before Pat gets here.”
“Who’s going to tell this story?” asked Captain Bill, looking just a bit suspiciously at his nephew.
Bob grinned. “Well, I thought that maybe you would. Seeing that you’re the best story-teller anyway.”
“Go long with your blarney. But I guess I will tell you one. It will be a sort of prologue to the rest of our stories. It’s about the very first flyers and the very first famous flight.”
“The Wrights?” asked Hal.
“The Wrights,” said the Captain. “Wilbur and Orville, and their first flight at Kitty Hawk, North Carolina.”