impression of an aeroplane in the air had nothing to do with
birds or dragon-flies or the miracle of it, because he was completely
absorbed in an impression of Carl Ericson, which he expressed after
this wise:

"I--am--going--to--be--an--aviator!"

And later, "Yes, _that's_ what I've always wanted."

He joined the group in front of the hangar-tent. Workmen were
hammering on wooden sheds back of it. He recognized the owner, Dr.
Bagby, from his pictures: a lean man of sixty with a sallow
complexion, a gray mustache like a rat-tail, a broad, black
countrified slouch-hat on the back of his head, a gray sack-suit which
would have been respectable but unfashionable at any period
whatsoever. He looked like a country lawyer who had served two terms
in the state legislature. His shoes were black, but not blackened, and
had no toe-caps--the comfortable shoes of an oldish man. He was
tapping his teeth with a thin corded forefinger and remarking in a
monotonous voice to a Mexican youth plump and polite and well dressed,
"Wel-l-l-l, Tony, I guess those plugs were better; I guess those plugs
were better. Heh?" Bagby turned to the others, marveled at them as if
trying to remember who they were, and said, slowly, "I guess those
plugs were all right. Heh?"

The monoplane was returning, for a time apparently not moving, like a
black mark painted on the great blue sky; then soaring overhead, the
sharply cut outlines clear as a pen-and-ink drawing; then landing,
bouncing on the slightly uneven ground.

As the French aviator climbed out, Dr. Bagby's sad face brightened and
he suggested: "Those plugs went better, Munseer. Heh? I've been
thinking. Maybe you been giving her too rich a mixture."

While they were wiping the Gnome engine Carl shyly approached Dr.
Bagby. He felt frightfully an outsider; wondered if he could ever be
intimate with the magician as was the plump Mexican youth they called
"Tony." He said "Uh" once or twice, and blurted, "I want to be an
aviator."

"Yes, yes," said Dr. Bagby, gently, glancing away from Carl to the machine.
He went over, twanged a supporting-wire, and seemed to remember that some
one had spoken to him. He returned to the fevered Carl, walking sidewise,
staring all the while at the resting monoplane, so efficient, yet so quiet
now and slender and feminine. "Yes, yes. So you'd like to be an aviator. So
you'd like--like----(Hey, boy, don't touch that!)----to be an aviator. Yes,
yes. They all would,