“No,” said Bob, “but I’m going some day. Bill’s going to teach me how to pilot a plane. He’s promised. He’s coming to visit us some time and bring his own plane. Dad takes me out to the airport whenever he can, and we watch the planes. I’ve never had a chance to go up, though.” Hal’s eyes clouded. “I hope you get to be an aviator,” he said, “I don’t think that I ever shall. My mother’d never allow me to go up.” “Oh, sure, she would,” consoled Bob, “if you wanted to badly enough. Have you ever built a plane? A model, I mean?” “Have I? Dozens. One of them flew, too. You’ve got to come up to my workshop and see them,” said Hal eagerly. “I read every new book that comes out. I think that airplanes are the greatest thing out.” “You’ve got to see my models, too. I made a _Spirit of St. Louis_ the year that Lindy flew across the Atlantic. Of course it isn’t as good as my later ones. Say, we’re going to have a swell time, aren’t we?” At that moment Bob knew that he and Hal were going to be good friends. And good friends they were. There were a great many things about Hal that annoyed Bob no end at first. Hal was, without a doubt, his mother’s boy. He was afraid of things—things that the fearless Bob took for granted. He was afraid of the dark—afraid of getting his feet wet—afraid of staying too late and worrying his mother. And then he was awkward. Bob tried gradually to initiate him into masculine sports—but it irked him to watch Hal throw a ball like a girl, or swim like a splashing porpoise. But he had to admit that Hal tried. And when he got better at things, it was fun teaching him. Bob felt years older than his pupil, and gradually came to take a protective attitude toward him that amused his mother. Mrs. Martin smiled one day when Bob complained about Hal’s awkwardness in catching a ball. “Well,” she said, “you may be teaching Hal things, but he’s teaching you, too, and you should be grateful to him.” “What’s he teaching me?” asked Bob, surprised. “I notice, Bob, that you’re reading a great deal more than you ever have. I think that that’s Hal’s influence.” “Oh, that,” said Bob, “why, we read the lives of the famous flyers, that’s all. Why, that’s fun. That’s not reading.” Mrs. Martin smiled again, and kept her customary silence. The strange friendship, founded on the love of airplanes, flourished. The boys were always together, and had invented an elaborate system of signals to communicate with each other at such times as they weren’t with one another. Two crossed flags meant “Come over at once.” One flag with a black ball on it meant “I can’t come over.” These flags, usually limp and bedraggled by the elements horrified the parents of both Bob and Hal when they saw them hanging in various intricate designs out of windows and on bushes and trees in the garden. But since they seemed necessary to the general scheme of things, they were allowed to go unmolested, even in the careful Gregg household.