approach to
the gracious fiction aviator of them all, yet never drawling in
affected modesty, never afraid of grease; smiling and industrious and
reticent; smooth of hair and cameo of face; wearing khaki
riding-breeches and tan puttees instead of overalls; always a
gentleman, even when he tried to appear a workman. He pretended to be
enthusiastic about the lunch-wagon, and never referred to his three
generations of army officers. But most of the others were shy of him,
and Jack Ryan, the "school grouch," was always trying to get him into
a fight.

Finally, there was Carl Ericson, who slowly emerged as star of them
all. He knew less of aerodynamics than the timid specialist, less of
practical mechanics than Hank Odell; but he loved the fun of daring
more. He was less ferocious in competition than was Jack Ryan, but he
wasted less of his nerve. He was less agile than the circus acrobat,
but knew more of motors. He was less compactly easy than Lieutenant
Haviland, but he took better to overalls and sleeping in hangars and
mucking in grease--he whistled ragtime while Forrest Haviland hummed
MacDowell.

* * * * *

Carl's earliest flights were in the school machine, "P'tite Marie,"
behind Carmeau, the instructor. Reporters were always about, talking
of "impressions," and Carl felt that he ought to note his impressions
on his first ascent, but all that he actually did notice was that it
was hard to tell at what instant they left the ground; that when they
were up, the wind threatened to crush his ribs and burst his nostrils;
that there must be something perilously wrong, because the machine
climbed so swiftly; and, when they were down, that it had been worth
waiting a whole lifetime for the flight.

For days he merely flew with the instructor, till he was himself
managing the controls. At last, his first flight by himself.

He had been ordered to try a flight three times about the aerodrome at
a height of sixty feet, and to land carefully, without pancaking--"and
be sure, Monsieur, be veree sure you do not cut off too high from the
ground," said Carmeau.

It was a day when five reporters had gathered, and Carl felt very much
in the limelight, waiting in the nacelle of the machine for the time
to start. The propeller was revolved, Carl drew a long breath and
stuck up his hand--and the engine stopped. He was relieved. It had
seemed a terrific responsibility to go up alone. He wouldn't, now,