chasers. The whirling, darting plane seemed so completely at the
mercy of the pilot that the boys were rapt in silent wonder. That
exhibition of what the birdmen of to-day call real flying was a
revelation to them.

It held out promise of long study and careful practice far ahead
before they could hope to equal or excel the cool, modest young
aviator who came down so gracefully after a series of side loops
that made most of the spectators hold their breath.

Summer days passed rapidly. Joe Little and Louis Deschamps were
sitting in a hangar one Sunday afternoon, chatting about a new type
of battle-plane that had arrived that week.

"I could fly that bus," said Joe, "if I had a chance."

"That is just the trouble," commented Louis. "Getting the chance is
what is so hard. I am tired of fussing around on those school
machines they let us on now and then. What is the good of trying to
fly on a plane that won't rise more than a couple of dozen feet? I
have never had a chance to fly anything else. I get to thinking,
working so much on real planes, that those school machines for the
infant class are not fliers at all. They are a sort of cross between
a flying machine and an auto."

"You are in too much of a rush," Joe admonished. "I think we are
lucky to get a go in one of those now and then. Jimmy Hill goes up
in that old dual-control bus with Adams, but to my mind that sort of
thing is out of date. I have got the idea of lateral control as well
on that school bus that Parks let me out on, as I could have got it