And Lindbergh did go off to Harry Guggenheim’s place on Long Island, and he did write _We_, all except the final portion which was clearly set apart as the work of Fitzhugh Green. And if fewer copies were sold because the book did not set the world on fire, at least its character was consistent with that of its author. I understand that Lindbergh saw that the journalist, who had done his best under trying circumstances, received full compensation for his unused work. Meanwhile, Charles A. Lindbergh had become for me the personification of the spirit of aviation. Young, courageous, daring, yet painstaking, competent, and proficient in his art, he had integrity and that quality so rare in this era of rampant materialism, Christian unselfishness. CHAPTER TWELVE A Change in Status As the summer of 1927 came to a close, I began to sense that my own work in BUAERO was coming to its end. The fact was crystallized for me one evening when Fred Rentschler, Chance Vought, my wife, and I sat out on the little balcony of our apartment at 2301 Connecticut Avenue, watching the shadows fall. Fred and Chance had had dinner with us and we could hear the clatter of dishes in the pantry as the maid of all work finished her chores. For when the visiting firemen came to town, we either had dinner with them downtown somewhere or they with us in the apartment. We balanced the social obligations that way. Our apartment looked out over Rock Creek Park and across the Memorial Bridge toward Wardman Park, and the tiny balcony was the one cool spot in it. In an open space among the trees stood a riding school that was reminiscent of that avid horseman, Billy Mitchell. And though he had lost out in his fight, his spirit still haunted aviation and would continue to do so for all time. He had created the opportunity on which Admiral Moffett had capitalized, and people like Fred Rentschler and Chance Vought had founded their businesses. Now Fred Rentschler, whose consuming passion was business, was talking about it. “This aviation business,” he was saying, “is like no other business in the world.” Chance Vought, sitting with his feet on the porch rail, glanced skeptically at him; Chance delighted in debunking Fred’s somewhat ponderous deductions. “Whoever said it was a business?” he demanded. “The best you can say for it is that it’s the ‘Aviation Game’; but it’s still a lousy racket.” A pained expression crossed Fred’s serious face. “Aviation is no longer a game or a racket,” he insisted. “It’s serious business and the sooner some of you airplane wood butchers wake up to that fact, the better.” Chance winked at me and then closed his eyes. He would snore during Fred’s discourse on a pet subject, but would probably come to life in time to put the clincher on the evening’s lesson.