However, eight members of the eleven, with a dozen subs., gathered nearest the machine, while the crowd regretfully made way for them. Even the glory of their football suits, and school sweaters, was dimmed as they gazed at Hike’s Balaclava helmet and leather jacket. They looked as though they wanted a ride, yet didn’t want to show themselves inferior to this aviator. “Say, fellows,” pleaded Hike, “I wanted you all to have a share in this blooming aviation business, and I brought up this machine for you. Won’t you ride with me. I know just as well as you do that the only reason I’ve ever done any aviating is just because I’ve had the chance, and I want to get you in on it.” Over the faces of the crowd spread a look of great love for Hike, as they heard him and privately assured themselves that undoubtedly they would be great aviators, too, if they had the chance. “Gee, that’s awfully good of you, old Hike!” said Pink Eye Morrison—and he didn’t talk like a Senior addressing a Sophomore, either! “Help me wheel the machine out on the field, where there’s more room,” said Hike, and as many hands as could find place on the machine started her off before Hike had time to climb out of the cockpit. He had Pink Eye climb in behind him, when they reached the field. It took the rest of the team to clear away the crowd that insisted on gathering right in front of the machine. Hike started away at the slowest speed he could manage, but the Paulhan shot into the air like an arrow. He wished that he had the easy-going _Hustle_. He glanced back and saw Pink Eye trying to smile, but catching his breath and gasping. Hike grabbed the hand-throttle and slowed down as best he could. He took the machine on a long, level course, over the safest country he could find—the sweep of tules in the marshes along the straits; and when he reached the athletic field, he brought her down as easily as possible. But even so, Pink Eye was pale and limp when he climbed out. “Great work,” exclaimed Hike, before Pink Eye could say a word. “You took to the air great. You’re an aviator already.” “Did I take it all right?” asked Pink Eye gratefully, enjoying the glances of envy from the crowd. “Thanks a hundred times, old Hike.” And Hike knew that there was one member of the team, at least, who would not bother him by envy any longer. Pink Eye was already explaining to his team-mates how much he had enjoyed the ride, and stating at length that the view of the tules, as seen from a monoplane at about seventy miles an hour, is very fine indeed. But the others were not very anxious to ride; not after having seen the monoplane come swooping down and hit the earth at over fifty miles an hour. Even Bill McDever, the captain—stolid Bill who never said much, and wasn’t much known, but was always the center of team-plays—seemed a little agitated, when he crawled in, as the next passenger.