He wandered up to Lieutenant Adeler’s room, worrying. He passed Sea Lion Rogers, who hailed him, “O Hike, got a minute!” “No!” shouted Hike, and hurried on. Sea Lion Rogers was probably called that because he was so smooth that he could have slid through water like a seal. He was the son of a millionaire; he had traveled everywhere; he had manners like those of a duke in a play; and he always sneered. His chief amusement, these days, was to come up to Hike and ask some impossible question about aviation with the polished, courteous, smiling way which was more maddening than any “kidding.” He was another thing that Hike had to settle—especially as some of the others were trying to imitate Rogers in this new sort of “kidding.” If he could only give the other members of the team a chance to aviate—well, _why couldn’t he_? It struck him as one of the finest little thoughts of the season, and he rushed into Jack Adeler’s room cheerfully. The Lieutenant looked up from a big book of electricity. “Where can I get an aeroplane?” begged Hike. “I want one, right away.” “There isn’t any other little thing you’d like, is there?” “No, there isn’t,” stated Hike, refusing to be drawn. “I find the fellows keep thinking I’m an outsider, because of my aviating, and I want to bring a machine here, and get them into the feel of it.” “I see. Good idea. I’ve noticed you’ve been having trouble. It’s made me pretty angry, but I thought I’d let you work it out. What do you want to do?” “Why, I thought if I gave them some rides, it would make them feel they were aviators.” “They might. Worth trying, anyway. I’ll tell you. A friend of mine has a Paulhan-Tatin monoplane, at Tanforan, just out of San Francisco. He’s offered to lend it to me—wants me to regulate the motor and so on, I guess. We’ll use that.” “When can we get it, Lieutenant?” “To-night?” “Great! That sounds like old times!” The Lieutenant telephoned for the Santa Benicia town-hack, and to the Headmaster, and threw a toothbrush and a book into a suit-case, while Hike hurried off to pack his aviation-clothes. In half an hour they were on a train. They found the Lieutenant’s friend at his home on Pacific Avenue, San Francisco. The three climbed into a motor car, and whirled out to the aerodrome. By the light of an electric lantern, Hike saw the Paulhan-Tatin monoplane, and gasped, for it looked like a fish, with funny wings, curved up at the ends; curved _up_; mind you. That, explained Jack Adeler, was for “automatic stability”—the bent wings kept the machine from tipping, without the aviator’s having to warp (that is, bend up the edges of) the wings. The Paulhan was the latest thing in monoplanes, devised for the use of the French army. Its torpedo-shaped body cut through the air with the least head-resistance possible.