A few weeks after the air show and dance, the energetic commander informed both seniors and cadets that they had been invited to visit the encampment under way at a base near the state capital. And, with the assistance of the Cadet Advisory Committee, he arranged for a bus to transport all those who could make the trip.

From the moment of their arrival at the base, the Wayfield group was kept busy trooping about the installation and listening to the accounts of cadets and Air Force personnel who were participating in the joint project. In no uncertain terms the latter showed their approval of the performance and conduct of their charges; there was neither criticism nor condescension in the attitudes of the service men. As for the cadets, there was plenty of praise for the manner in which the Air Force had handled the task of receiving, training and housing the visitors; and there was no lack of pride in their accomplishments nor of pleasure in telling about their experiences.

"March?" one grizzled master sergeant exclaimed in answer to a question concerning this phase of the activities. "Why, they're out marching before we're up in the morning. I'd be willing to bet that if they had been marching in one direction, most of them would be at home right now."

Ed Sherman, of the Sandeford Squadron, was one of the cadets at the camp. He was quick to point out that there was much more to the encampment than simply drill and marching. He held the absorbed attention of the Wayfieldians while escorting some of them about the Air Force post.

"They didn't waste any time getting us started," he said. "On the first day there were the usual formalities such as welcoming speeches and that sort of thing, and then we got a lecture on military customs and base regulations. From that time on we've been kept busy."

"Any flying?" Tom asked.

"Oh, sure," Ed replied. "We've had orientation flights in some of the transport planes and bombers and we've had a chance to look over some of the ships on the flight line. F-94's, F-86's, T-11's, and T-6's were the ones we saw most of."

"What subjects do you cover in training?" Ralph Cross asked.

"Quite a lot. Let me see if I can remember some of them. There were lectures and demonstrations and other types of instruction in air police functions, medical training, military justice, communications, maintenance, supply, motor vehicles, and, well . . . a lot of other things."

"How about things like navigation?" Red asked.

"Sure," Ed answered. "We had navigation, flying safety and crash procedures--and a lecture and demonstration on parachutes. I just can't think of everything, and we still have almost a week to go, too."

"Any shooting?" Ned Banks queried.

"That's scheduled for the next week. We've had a little practice in the use of the carbine, and we'll fire it on the range later. Even the girls get to try their skill," Ed said.

"Are there many girls?" Red wanted to know.

"Are there! They're all over the place! The Air Force has set them up in a special barracks, and the whole area is placed off limits. And I mean it's off limits, too, for the air police keep a twenty-four hour guard around the place," Ed stated.

"Ed, who runs the camp? I mean, do the cadets have anything to say about the administration?" Ralph asked.

"Sure we do. You see," Sherman explained, "there are some senior CAP men and women here, but the cadets run their own show. There's a regular command setup, under the supervision of the seniors--just the way it is in the squadrons. But we're responsible for practically everything that concerns us, even K.P."

"K.P.!" Red exclaimed. "I thought K.P. was just for the ones that broke the rules or something."

"No, sir," Ed answered with a shake of the head. "That's a regular duty and everyone has to pull it. And it isn't so bad."

"Red's afraid of getting dishpan hands," Tom said with a grin.

"You mean the gals might not dance with him at the big shindig?" Ed queried, winking at the others.

"Dance!" Red shouted. "Do you have dances?"

"We're having a big one to end the camp. But there's plenty of fun here besides the work. Movies, swimming, tennis, bowling and a lot of other things," Ed said.

"Boy, I'm going to be the first to volunteer next summer,'' Ned Banks declared.

"You're going to have to get in line, Ned," Ralph put in. "After seeing how all this is carried on, we're going to have a hard time keeping within our quota."

"How about the cost, Ed?" Tom questioned. "Is it very high?"

Ed Sherman shook his head. "All we have to pay for is our meals, and they don't cost very much. Other than that, there isn't a thing to spend money on except movies and cokes and things like that."

Sherman's comments were more than borne out as the Wayfield group moved about the base. From every bronzed cadet, whether boy or girl, they heard nothing but commendation for the Air Force and delight over the schedule of training. None pretended that it was too easy or without challenge, but all were quick to explain that the way the program was worked out, none of it seemed like actual work. And everyone was of the opinion that his worth to the CAP would be tremendously enhanced by the two weeks that he was passing at the air base.

Tired from tramping about the installation, walking up and down the flight line to climb aboard the jets that had been arrayed for their examination, inspecting the barracks in which their fellow cadets were living, and a host of other activities, the Wayfield contingent was quiet as they reluctantly started the trip home that evening. For the first time they had been able to see and really feel the connection between the CAP and the U. S. Air Force. It had left them with something akin to awe at the might of a nation that could both produce powerful fighting aircraft and yet take the time and trouble to extend hospitality to fledgling airmen. A sense of pride in their own organization had been increased by the sight of junior members who had so well adapted themselves to the rigors of service life, abbreviated and tailored though that experience might be. Hardly one of them, on that ride back to Wayfield, failed to promise himself that next year he would be among the numbers that would flock to the summer encampment.

For his own part, Tom felt his interest in aviation greatly strengthened. This, his first trip to any sizeable field, had filled him with eagerness to forge ahead, to learn more about the game, to perfect himself in every aspect of flying.

Curious to know the opinions and feelings of Ralph Cross, who was occupying the bus seat next to him, Tom glanced at his companion. He hesitated as he was about to speak, for since their argument over Ed Dawson there had existed an unnatural stiffness between them. Not in any sense unfriendly toward each other, they nevertheless had never managed the same degree of understanding that had existed before the incident. Then Ralph's eyes locked with his own, and they grinned at each other.

"What'd you think of all that?" Ralph asked.

"I was going to ask you the same question," Tom countered. "But since you came at me first, I'll tell you. I thought it was swell, and I'm sorry I couldn't be there with all those fellows. How'd you feel about it?"

"Just like you, I guess," Ralph replied. "Ever since we got started on organizing the squadron, I've been interested in aviation. But this trip sort of opened my eyes. I never realized there was so much to all of it, and it . . . well, I guess it made me really want to see some more."

"You mean you're more sold on the whole flying game?" "That's right," Ralph said slowly. "What I've learned in the squadron plus this trip today have made me wonder if I shouldn't look at flying from a career point of view."

"Now you're beginning to talk the way I do," Tom said jocularly.

Ralph laughed quietly. "There aren't many as hepped on flying as you are, Tom. But I guess I'm beginning to see things the way you do."

"Wouldn't it be swell if we could get flying licenses? I mean, if we could sort of use the squadron planes together and do some real flying?" Tom asked wishfully.

"We can get student licenses right now, can't we?"

"Sure we can. Of course we'd have to take lessons and everything. But we're old enough to have student certificates.''

"How much would it cost?"

Tom groaned. "That's the trouble. The big cost is the instruction that we'd have to take before we'd be able to solo. Nick Crynes would help, but he isn't a qualified instructor."

"Wasn't he one before the war?" Ralph asked.

"Sure he was! Say, maybe he could get his certificate again. I'm going to talk to him about it!" Tom cried excitedly.

He lapsed into silence, weighing the idea Ralph had suggested. If Nick could be persuaded to renew his instructor's license, some sort of a deal with the former sergeant might be arranged so that he, Tom, could earn the lessons that the latter could give. Up until now, his arrangement with Crynes had been simply one of getting in flying time as a reward for his work around the garage and hangar. But with school out, he could spend more time at the field and make his services more valuable to the garage-man. He might even, he thought, be able to persuade his father to let him work at the Ledger office part time and in that way earn additional money to help in paying his way.

He had never looked into the details of obtaining a license, but he knew that a student permit could be obtained in relatively easy fashion. The private pilot's certificate would require more time, effort and expense, but even that would not be out of the question. In another month he would be seventeen, the minimum age for obtaining a private license. If all went well, he could at least be on the way to obtaining such a certificate. It all depended on two things: Nick Crynes being persuaded to renew his instructor's status--and enough money to pay for the necessary instruction. Neither, Tom decided, was an unsurmountable obstacle.

"You know," he observed to Ralph as they drew near to Wayfield, "you've given me an idea on that license business. I'm going to get to work on it right away."

Tom did not waste a moment. The next day when he saw Nick he asked him whether or not he had thought of renewing his instructor's license. Crynes was noncommittal, listening as Tom pointed out that the presence of the CAP in Wayfield might result in an increased number of applicants for instruction, but saying little. He admitted that he didn't think it would be difficult to establish himself as an instructor once again, but he made no promises that he would try to do so. More than once he smiled as Tom tried to make him commit himself, but all he would agree to was that he would look into the matter.

For the next week there was hardly a day that passed that Tom did not repeat his argument. He sensed, or thought he sensed, that Crynes was weakening, for the latter showed no disposition to refute any arguments posed. In a tantalizing fashion, he refused to admit whether or not he had made any effort to find out about renewing his license, but neither would he say that he had not.

"Who'd be my first pupil, Tom," the friendly Crynes asked after one unusually persistent plea.

"Well . . . uh . . . I guess it would depend on . . . on how much the lessons would cost," Tom stammered an answer.

Nick laughed. "Were you thinking by any chance of making a deal with me?"

"I guess maybe I was," Tom admitted sheepishly.

"And I guess maybe we can do just that," Nick said, slipping an arm over Tom's shoulder. "There's plenty of work around the garage and the hangar. If you want to work full time, you ought to be able to earn enough to pay your way, even at the slave wages I'd be able to afford."

"You mean you'll do it!"

"I got off a letter yesterday, asking for the dope. If it doesn't run to too much expense, I'll try and renew my license. And if I do, we'll work out some sort of an arrangement so that you can take lessons."

"Gosh, Nick! Gosh!" was all that Tom could think to say, but the warm handclasp he gave the friendly ex-sergeant was more expressive than any words he could have uttered.

When Tom told his parents of his plans that evening, he found them both interested. Once or twice Mrs. Carroll made the suggestion that perhaps her son was a trifle young to be thinking of taking off the ground alone in an airplane; but the objections met with short consideration by the male members of the family. They scoffed at her qualms. Finally, yielding gracefully, she left them alone.

"I wish I could do something to help you, son," Mr. Carroll said, puffing on his pipe.

"Business not too good, Dad?"

His father frowned, shaking his head slowly. "I can't quite put my finger on what's wrong. The advertising has fallen off quite a bit, and our income has dropped as a result. It isn't hopeless, of course, but it just makes things a little rough."

"Dad, has Mr. Dawson had anything to do with your loss of advertising?"

"It could be, Son. It could be," his father said slowly. "The accounts that we've lost have either been those of firms that Dawson has an interest in or are run by friends of his."

"Then Mr. Corwin was right," Tom observed.

"You mean about Dawson never forgetting that we licked him in the fight over the airfield? Yes, I guess he was. But what really worries me is the printing of the Town Report this fall. That's a big job. It will mean the difference between making a profit or taking a loss for the year."

"But what has Dawson got to do with that? How can he prevent you from getting the contract?" Tom asked.

"Late this summer, we submit bids to the Town Council, you see, Son. If they decide not to take our bid, then there's nothing that I can do about it. The job will go to some other printing outfit. And the point of the whole thing is that Dawson has a lot of influence with the Council and can probably swing them one way or the other."

"Dad! Isn't there anything we can do? Couldn't we go to Mr. Corwin, or . . ."

"Tom, I knew what I was getting into when we started our fight with Dawson. No, this is my scrap. If I lose the Town Report, I lose it, that's all. But it's my fight, and I'll go it alone."

All of Tom's excitement over the prospect of flying lessons vanished in an instant as he considered the effect of his father's revelation. Once again, as he had done during the earlier days, he blamed himself for being selfish and thoughtless. If he had not involved his father in the scrap with Dawson, none of this would have happened. Whatever his interest in flying, it was not worth risking the future of his parent's business. He had been blind, overcome with a childish sense of elation about the outcome of the airfield fight. But actually they had only won the first skirmish. Another and more serious battle was looming, he reasoned. And this one was not the kind that could be won by anything like the tactics that had been used in the Town Meeting. This was far more serious, involving as it did the very happiness of his family. Somehow, he resolved, he would try and figure out some way to help his father. No price would be too great to pay. He could give up school, or ask Nick to pay him a salary which he could use to help defray the household expenses. If need be, he could go to Mr. Dawson and plead with him to stop using his influence against the Ledger editor.

The bids would not be submitted to the Town Council until late summer, his father had said, so there was no need to hurry. Meanwhile, Tom decided, he would keep his eyes open and try to see how the situation developed. If it looked bad, he would give up the whole idea of taking flying lessons and concentrate on trying to earn some money. If his father's suspicions were unfounded and all went well, he would carry out his arrangement with Nick.

That night, as he dropped off to sleep, Tom was thinking of the promise Nick had made to him. In spite of his concern over the news his father had given him, his mind was filled with thoughts of flying.