"I'm to get my second wing soon, and I want to show that I can
manage a plane all by myself, even if you're in it," said the lad,
whose name was Dick Martin. "They say I can make a solo flight
to-morrow if I do well to-day."
"Well, go to it!" exclaimed Tom with a laugh. "I'm willing."
Soon they were in a double-seater of fairly safe construction--that
is, it was not freakish nor speedy, and was what was usually used in
this instructive work.
"I'm going to fly over the town," declared Martin, naming the French
city nearest the camp. "Well, mind you keep the required distance
up," cautioned Tom, for there was, a regulation making it necessary
for the aviators to fly at a certain minimum height above a town in
flying across it, so that if they developed engine trouble, they
could coast safely down and land outside the town itself.
"I'll do that," promised Martin.
But either he forgot this, or he was unable to keep at the required
height, for he began scaling down when about over the center of the
place. Tom saw what was happening, and reached over to take the
controls. But something happened. There was a jam of one of the
levers, and to his consternation Tom saw the machine going down and
heading straight for a large greenhouse on the outskirts of the
town.
"There's going to be one beautiful crash!" Tom thought, as he worked
in vain to send the craft up. But it was beyond control.
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