“Six tonight,” said Bob. “Down at the airport. Dad says that he’ll drive us both out there so that we can meet Captain Bill, and drive him back. Gee, wouldn’t it be great if he had an autogyro and could land in our back yard?” “Maybe he’ll have one the next time he comes. What kind of plane is he flying?” “His new Lockheed. It’s a monoplane, he says, and painted green, with a reddish nose. It’s green because his partner, Pat, wanted it green. Pat’s been his buddy since they were over in France together, and anything that Pat says, goes. It’s got two cockpits, and dual controls. It’s just great for teaching beginners. That means us, Hal, old boy. Listen, you’d better get ready. Dad will be home soon, and will want to start down for the port. Say, does that sound like thunder?” The boys listened. It did sound like thunder. In fact, it was thunder. “Golly, I hope it doesn’t storm. Mother won’t let me go if it rains.” Bob laughed. “I wouldn’t worry about you getting wet if it stormed,” he said. “What about Bill, right up in the clouds? Of course, he can climb over the storm if it’s not too bad. But you hurry anyhow. We’ll probably get started before it rains, anyway.” At ten minutes to six Hal, Bob and Bob’s father were parked at the airport, their necks stretched skyward, watching the darkening, clouded skies for the first hint of a green monoplane. No green monoplane did they see. A few drops of rain splattered down, then a few more, and suddenly the outburst that had been promising for hours poured down. Bob’s father, with the aid of the two boys, put up the windows of the car, and they sat fairly snug while the rain teemed down about them. The field was becoming sodden. Crashes of lightning and peals of thunder seemed to flash and roll all about them. All of the airplanes within easy distance of their home port had come winging home like birds to an enormous nest. The three watchers scanned each carefully, but none was the green Lockheed of Captain Bill. The time passed slowly. Six-thirty; then seven. Finally Mr. Martin decided that they could wait no longer. “He’s probably landed some place to wait for the storm to lift,” he said. “He can take a taxi over to the house when he gets in.” Reluctant to leave, the boys nevertheless decided that they really couldn’t wait all night in the storm for Captain Bill, and so they started for home. Very wet, and bedraggled, and very, very, hungry, they arrived. Hal’s mother was practically hysterical, met him at the door, and drew him hastily into the house. Mr. Martin and his son ran swiftly from the garage to the back door of their house, but were soaked before they got in. Entering the darkened kitchen, they could hear voices inside. “Doesn’t that sound like—why, it is—that’s Bill’s voice,” shouted Bob. The light switched on, and Bill and Mrs. Martin came into the kitchen to greet their prodigal relatives. “Hello,” said Bill, “where have you people been? You seem to be wet. Shake on it.”