well," sneered Jardin, pushing
open the door of the hangar. He disappeared within, followed by Frank.

"Well, that's all right," said Ernest, smiling pleasantly. "I don't see
as it is anyone's business what you like to do. I think if you feel a
bit uneasy you are very wise to stay right on the ground."

"It is not that at all," said Bill, acting on a sudden impulse to tell
this pleasant young stranger the reason for his refusal. "It is not
that, and the reason probably won't interest you. Frank and Horace are
always kidding me about it, but I can't help it. You see, I promised my
mother that I wouldn't go up. She has a bad heart, and a shock like my
getting hurt would certainly kill her. I can't risk that, can I? And
when you come down to it, it is just as you say. I don't see as it is
anybody's business what I do."

"I rather think not," said Ernest, clapping Bill on the shoulder. "I
guess if you were in _my_ boat, with no mother to do things for, you
would be glad enough to give up a thing like that. What do you care
_what_ they say?"

"I don't," declared Bill, "only they always give people the impression
that I am afraid. And I am not."

"Of course you are not!" exclaimed Ernest. "That bores me awf'ly! Let's
get my little boat out. You don't mind skating around the field, do
you?"

"Tickled to death!" said Bill eagerly, and hastened into a place in the
trim, beautiful little plane.

The moment they were set in motion he saw that the plane was a wonder.
It answered to the slightest touch of the wheel or levers and rode the
humps on the field with a motion that told Bill, experienced as he was
in that part of the sport, that it was made of the finest possible
materials.

His admiration finally burst into speech.

"What a beauty this is!" he roared over the blast of the throbbing
engine.

The young pilot turned a lever, and the racket subsided into a soft,
steady humming.

Bill repeated his remark. Ernest stopped the plane and, getting out,
commenced to adjust the engine.

"I see she needs a little tuning up this morning," he said, pulling off
his gauntlets and fishing a screwdriver out of one of the many pockets
in his aviator's coat. Bill joined him.

"It _is_ a good machine," admitted Ernest. "I am certainly proud to own
it. It is too good a machine for me but I am as careful of it as I know
how to be. I think so much of it that I never try any fool stunts with
it. Dad says it was worth all he put i