And inside of five minutes I'd sketched out a diagram of the buildin's and the whole outfit. Then we poked Martin up long enough for him to sign it. "Fine work!" says Donald. "That earns you a hop, all right. Now buckle yourself into that cloud costume and I'll show you how a 110-horse-power crow would go from here to the middle of Long Island if he was in a hurry." "You can't make it any too speedy for me," says I, slippin' into the sheepskin jacket. "Ever been up before?" he asks. "Only once--in a hydro," says I; "but I ain't missed any chances." "That's the spirit!" says he. "Come along. The old bus is anchored down the field a ways." I couldn't hardly believe I was actually goin' to pull it off until he'd got the motor started and we went skimmin' along the ground. But as soon as we shook off the State of Connecticut and began climbin' up over a strip of woods, I settles back in the little cockpit, buttons the wind-shield over my mouth, and sighs contented. Allen and I didn't exchange much chat. You don't with an engine of that size roarin' a few feet in front of you and your ears buttoned down by three or four layers of wool and leather. Once he points out ahead and tries to shout something, I don't know what. But I nods and waves encouragin'. Later he points down and grins. I grins back. Next thing I knew, he's shut off the motor, and I gets a glimpse of the whole of Long Island behavin' odd. Seems as if it's swellin' and widenin' out, like one of these freaky toy balloons you blow up. It didn't seem as if we was divin' down--more like the map was rushin' up to meet us. Pretty soon I could make out a big open space with a lot of squatty buildin's at one end, and in a couple of minutes more the machine was rollin' along on its wheels and we taxied graceful up towards the hangars. It was just gettin' dusk as we piles out, and the first few yards I walked I felt like I was dressed in a divin' suit with a pair of lead boots on my feet. I saw Allen salute an officer, hand over the map, and heard him say something about Observer Martin wantin' to report sick. Then he steers me off toward the barracks, circles past' em, and leads me through a back gate. "I think we've put it over, old man," says he, givin' me the cordial grip. "I can't tell you what a good turn you've done me." "It's fifty-fifty," says I. "Where do I hit a station?" "You take this trolley that's coming," says he. "That junk you have on you can send back to-morrow, in my care. And I--I trust you'll find things all right at home." "Thanks," says I. "Hope you'll have the same luck yourself some day." "Oh, perhaps," says he, shakin' his head doubtful. "If I ever get back. But not until I'm past thirty, anyway." "Why so late?" asks I. "What would get my goat," says he, "would be the risk of breakin' into the grandfather class before I got ready." "Gee!" I gasps. "I hadn't thought of that."