the narrow gangways between the
white state-room doors. Off for a month's flying in Brazil and
Argentine, with Tony Bean. Will look up data for coming exploration of
Amazon headwaters. Martin Dockerill like a regular Beau Brummel in new
white flannels, parading the deck, making eyes at pretty Greaser
girls. It's good to be _going_.

* * * * *

_Feb. 22, 1912_: Geo. W's birthday. He'd have busted that no-lie
proviso if he'd ever advertised an aero meet.

Start of flight New Orleans to St. Louis. Looks like really big times,
old fashioned jubilee all along the road and lots of prizes, though
take a chance. Only measly little $2,500 prize guaranteed, but vague
promises of winnings at towns all along, where stop for short
exhibitions. Each of contestants has to fly at scheduled towns for
percentage of gate receipts.

_Feb. 23_: What a rotten flight to-day. Small crowd out to see me off.
No sooner up than trouble with plugs. Wanted to land, but nothing but
bayous, rice fields, cane breaks, and marshes. Farmer shot at my
machine. Soon motor stopped on me and had to come down awhooping on a
small plowed field. Smashed landing gear and got an awful jar. Nothing
serious though. It was two hours before a local blacksmith and I
repaired chassis and cleaned plugs. I started off after coaching three
scared darkies to hold the tail, while the blacksmith spun the
propeller. He would give it a couple of bats, then dodge out of the
way too soon, while I sat there and tried not to look mad, which by
gum I was plenty mad. Landed in this bum town, called ----, fourth in
the race, and found sweet (?) refuge in this chills and fever hotel.
Wish I was back in New Orleans. Cheer up, having others ahead of me in
the race just adds a little zip to it. Watch me to-morrow. And I'm not
the only hard luck artist. Aaron Solomons busted propeller and nearly
got killed.

_Later._ Cable. Tony Bean is dead. Killed flying. My god, Tony,
impossible to think of him as dead, just a few days ago we were flying
together and calling on senoritas and he playing the fiddle and
laughing, always so polite, like he used to fiddle us into good nature
when we got discouraged at Bagby's school. Seems like it was just
couple minutes ago we drove in his big car through Avenida de Mayo and
everybody cheered him, he was hero of Buenos Aires, yet he treated me
as the Big Chief. Cablegram forwarded from New Orleans, dated
yesterday, "Bea