"Not me," was the reply. "I have a swat of work. There is ballast
for you, though, over there by the shed." Bob Haines was the ballast
indicated. He was putting the final touches on an aeroplane propellor
to which he had administered a coat of varnish.

"What lot?" queried the pilot.

"Bunch of young fellows from about here. Sort of volunteers. Idea
of the colonel's, I think. Nice lot of boys. Young, but getting on
fast. I have seen one of them, a French boy, quite a bit lately, and
if they are all as good at locating engine trouble as he is they will
go far in this game before they are old men. Ask the tall youngster.
He will be tickled to death. I don't suppose he has been up before,
but he will be a good passenger. Be careful and don't scare him.
Don't try any stunts. Shall I sing out to him?"

"I guess so. I don't much care who it is so long as he weighs up to
average, and that fellow looks pretty husky."

"Here, young fellow! You are needed here for a minute," called out
Fanshaw.

Bob trotted over to the plane at once.

"What were you at?" asked the instructor.

"Varnishing," replied Bob. "Just finished."

"This is Lieutenant Fauver. He is trying this new chaser. She is