, in a snug blue flannel suit, with his cap turned round on his
head, he went to the flap of the rickety tent which served as his
hangar. A fierce cry of "Fly! Fly! Why don't he fly?" was coming from
the long black lines edging the track, and from the mound of people on
the small grand stand; the pink blur of their faces turned toward
him--him, Carl Ericson; all of them demanding _him_! The five meek
police of Onamwaska were trotting back and forth, keeping them behind
the barriers. Carl was apprehensive lest this ten-thousandfold demand
drag him out, make him fly, despite a wind that was blowing the flags
out straight, and whisking up the litter of newspapers and
cracker-jack boxes and pink programs. While he stared out, an official
crossing the track fairly leaned up against the wind, which seized his
hat and sailed it to the end of the track.

"Some wind!" Carl grunted, stolidly, and went to the back of the
silent tent, to reread the local papers' accounts of his arrival at
Onamwaska. It was a picturesque narrative of the cheering mob
following him down the street ("Gee! that was _me_ they followed!"),
crowding into the office of the Astor House and making him autograph
hundreds of cards; of girls throwing roses ("Humph! geraniums is more
like it!") from the windows.

"A young man," wrote an enthusiastic female reporter, "handsome as a
Greek god, but honestly I believe he is still in his twenties; and he
is as slim and straight as a soldier, flaxen-haired and
rosy-cheeked--the birdman, the god of the air."

"Handsome as a Greek----" Carl commented. "I look like a Minnesota
Norwegian, and that ain't so bad, but handsome----Urrrrrg!... Sure
they love me, all right. Hear 'em yell. Oh, they love me like a dog
does a bone.... Saint Jemima! talk about football rooting.... Come on,
Greek god, buck up."

He glanced wearily about the tent, its flooring of long, dry grass
stained with ugly dark-blue lubricating-oil, under the tan light
coming through the canvas. His manager was sitting on a suit-case,
pretending to read a newspaper, but pinching his lower lip and
consulting his watch, jogging his foot ceaselessly. Their temporary
mechanic, who had given up trying to repair the lame valve, squatted
with bent head, biting his lip, harkening to the blood-hungry mob.
Carl's own nerves grew tauter and tauter as he saw the manager's
restless foot and the mechanic's tension. He strolled to the
monoplane, his back to the tent-ope