FOR the better part of a week following the squadron's mission, Tom was left in sole charge of Nick Crynes' shop. The ex-sergeant had suggested the arrangement, explaining that he would have to visit the state capital for several days and needed someone to keep things running in the garage and hangar. He offered what Tom considered generous wages, agreeing to pay either in cash or in flying time.

Saturday afternoon, while he was filling the gas tank of a customer's car, Tom heard the sound of an airplane motor. When the craft drew near, he recognized it as the one that Nick had used for his trip; as quickly as possible he completed his job and went to the front of the hangar to await the landing.

"Have a good trip?" he asked as Nick climbed out of the plane

"You bet I did," the flyer answered. "How'd things go in the shop?"

"No trouble at all. We did some pretty good business, and I even sold a few tires for you."

"Swell! Maybe we ought to make this a permanent arrangement,'' Nick suggested, grinning.

"You know the way I feel about it," Tom answered. "All you have to do is say the word."

"Well, I think I'll take you up on it, Tom. You see, I figure I'm going to be kept a little busier than before and I'm going to need someone to help me around here."

"I don't get you, Nick. What do you mean?" Tom asked, mystified at the other's remark.

"I took your advice while I was at the capital and went around to see the Civil Aeronautics people," Nick explained.

"You mean you checked to see if you could renew your flight instructor's license?" Tom queried excitedly.

"Better'n that. I got it," Nick declared.

"Your certificate? You mean you're all set to give instruction?''

"Yes, sir. I've got a temporary license right here in my pocket, and the permanent one is in the mail. That's why I said I may need an assistant around here."

"Boy, that's great news!" Tom exclaimed, a wide grin lighting up his face. "Do you think I can earn enough working for you to pay for lessons?"

"I'll see to that. This was your idea, you know, and I'm going to need you to practice on. And you'd better make a good pupil, too, so everyone will think I'm a red-hot instructor.''

"You mean," Tom said, "they'll figure that if you can teach me to fly, you ought to be able to teach anyone?"

Nick laughed. "Nope. I'm satisfied that my first customer is a good risk. Now, do you want those wages I owe you in cash, or do you want me to credit them to your account?"

"Sure I want you to credit them. I want to start . . ." Tom stopped. He had forgotten the promise he had made to himself to earn money for the family. In his excitement over the news of Nick's new status, he had completely overlooked the matter. An expression of dismay on his face, he said, "Let's wait a few days, Nick. I . . . well, I'd better talk to my parents."

"Do you think they might not want you to take lessons?" Nick asked, looking curiously at him.

"No, it isn't that," Tom answered hastily. "It's just. . . well . . . I can't explain now. Let's talk about it later."

"Would you like the money now, Tom?" Nick asked in a kindly manner.

"Just hold it for me," Tom answered. "We'll settle it later on."

"Okay. We'll do whatever you want. But, anyway, the job is yours whether you want to be paid in cash or in lessons."

"Thanks, Nick," Tom said. "I sure appreciate it."

For as long as he could remember, Tom had wanted to fly. The hours that he had spent with Nick, carried as a passenger in the L-5, had given him a full measure of satisfaction. Yet he had been just a rider, not at the controls, and something had been missing. Now, he well realized, he had the chance of a lifetime confronting him. Simply by working around Nick's shop, a job which he actually enjoyed, he could earn enough to pay for the instruction he would need in order to win a license. There would be no financial effort required of his family, nothing but a summer of work by him. Through his own efforts, he could actually realize his dreams of some day taking a ship into the air, of guiding it through wide blue skies, of cutting the bonds that bind men to the earth.

He should be enthusiastic over the prospect, he knew. But in the face of the news that his father had recently given him, there was little reason to feel anything except disappointment at the thought of the chance he was missing. That his parent would some day have crossed swords with Big Ed Dawson, he had no doubt; the two men stood for different things and almost certainly would have clashed eventually. That was all supposition, though. The truth was that the fracas over the sale of the airfield had brought the editor of the Ledger into conflict with the real estate man. For that reason he, Tom, was responsible for the efforts that Dawson was making to drive his father to the wall. There was no escaping that nor the fact that it was his duty to do all he could to help out his family in this time of crisis. And to do that meant giving up the chance to take flying lessons.

That evening Tom told his parents about Nick's offer of employment, and they were in full agreement that he should accept it. Not only did they both know and like the ex-sergeant but both fully appreciated Tom's interest in aviation and knew he would be happiest while working around the airfield. Somewhat diffidently, in reply to his mother's question concerning the possibility that some day Nick might teach him how to fly, he told them that Nick had acquired his instructor's license.

"Why that's wonderful, Tom! Now you can use the money that you earn to pay for the lessons," Mrs. Carroll declared.

"I think maybe I'll wait till later for that," Tom answered quietly.

"But I thought you wanted to get started on it this summer,'' his mother persisted.

"Well... maybe it's a little too soon," Tom said lamely. "I think I'll wait a while and use the money for something else."

Mrs. Carroll shook her head. "I guess I just don't understand men. A week ago you spent practically a whole evening convincing me that you were old enough to begin and now you want to wait."

"Maybe," his father said, puffing on his pipe and looking intently at Tom, "the boy just wants to spend more time on his CAP training before getting into the actual piloting."

"That's it," Tom said, throwing a grateful glance at his father. "I want to learn more about everything before I begin taking lessons. Then maybe it'll be easier."

"I still don't understand it," his mother said.

Mr. Carroll yawned. "I want some tobacco. How about walking down to the store with me, Tom, while I re-stock."

"Okay, Dad. Let's go."

"But you just bought some . . ." Mrs. Carroll started.

"I want another kind, and we both need the exercise," her husband stated firmly.

"Sometimes," Mr. Carroll observed as the two started on their way, "women have a hard time taking a hint."

"I guess Mom is a little confused, especially after listening to me talk so much about flying," Tom said.

"Did you make this sudden decision about not taking lessons because of what I told you?" Mr. Carroll asked.

"Well . . . yes, sir. I figured that maybe I ought to use whatever I earn to help around the house. You know, sort of pay my own way instead of making you support me."

"I don't think it's going to be necessary, Tom," his father said. "You see, the advertising hasn't dropped off any more, and I can't believe that I'm going to lose that Town Report contract."

"But things aren't any better, are they? And you still haven't got the contract signed," Tom protested.

"Business isn't any better, but it isn't any worse. We'll come out all right if we get the contract."

"But, Dad, you may not get the contract. You were saying that Mr. Dawson has a lot of influence with the Town Council, so if he still feels the way he does, you might still lose it," Tom stated.

"Well, I was talking to one of the men on the Council, a fellow that's been pretty friendly to me, and he told me that he didn't think I'd lose it. Personally, I think that all this talk about Dawson's vindictiveness is maybe a little exaggerated. Sure, he won't do me any favors, but I don't think he'll go out of his way to try and hurt me. He has too many other things to keep him busy."

"But I want to help, Dad. I'll earn enough this summer to help out a lot. If you don't need it, I'll use the money next year to take lessons."

"Tom," his father said, "I'm glad you want to do your part. It makes a father feel proud when his son acts the way you have, believe me. And I'd take you up on your offer, if I really thought we'd need your help. But, in all honesty, I think we'll get along all right. The most you could do would be to save your money for next year. All you'll accomplish will be to put off getting the lessons that I know you want to take right now. There's no telling what may happen during the coming year, so my advice to you is to go right ahead with Nick. Work for him and take your pay in the instruction that he'll give you."

From that point on, Tom's arguments were fruitless. By the time he and his father had returned home they had agreed that the best thing for Tom to do would be to take the lessons, as he had originally planned. In spite of his eagerness to help out with the family finances, he could not help but feel pleased at the outcome, for deep in his heart he wanted to begin flying instruction. There was a tiny reservation in his mind; he was not at all sure that his father was right about Big Ed Dawson not being vindictive. But, whatever his doubts, he felt a wave of relief at his father's firm protest against delaying the instruction. That relief was based not only on the fact that he was free to go ahead with his original plans, but also on his parent's belief that business was not as bad as he had thought it would be.

Bright and early the next day, Tom paid a call on Nick Crynes. The latter needed no words to tell him that his first pupil was ready to start the flying course. The look on Tom's face was too easy to read. With very little discussion, they reached an agreement on the terms of the arrangement by which Tom was to work about the shop and hangar in return for the lessons. In essence, the deal amounted to this: Tom was to put in six working days, taking instruction in accordance with a schedule which Nick would arrange, and being billed for the lessons against the sum which he would earn.

"Sit down here, Tom," Nick said, a serious expression on his leathery face. "Before we get started on flying, I want to tell you a few things. They're important, so listen carefully."

"Okay, Nick," Tom said, settling himself in a chair in the office.

"Tom, you're taking the first steps leading to becoming a pilot. On your training, on your ability and on your judgment will depend your own safety and the safety of others in the air or on the ground. Because of that, you'll have to observe certain restrictions until you've gained enough skill, experience and knowledge to become a private pilot."

"You mean while I'm a student pilot?"

"That's right. You'll get your student's pilot certificate easily. All you need is a physical examination. As you show improvement, you'll get additional privileges. That'll be up to you. But the important thing is to remember the responsibility that you have and the need to follow all of the rules.

"Now, of course, one of the first things you want to know is when you can solo. The answer is that you first have to pass a written examination on certain parts of the Civil Air Regulations. Then you've got to receive instruction in the prevention of power-on and power-off stalls, as well as in recovery from those same stalls. In addition, you'll have to show me that you know how to take off, land and handle the ship. When I think you're ready, I'll let you solo."

"Boy, that'll be the day? Tom exclaimed.

"That's just the beginning," Nick said with a laugh. "You'll be tied down pretty much, you know, for a long while after your first solo. You'll have to fly within an area that I set for you till after you've had fifteen hours' flying time, unless I decide earlier that you're hot enough to roam around a little. Besides that, you'll have to take at least three hours dual cross-country instruction. When you have, I'll endorse your student pilot certificate."

"Anything else?"

"Yes, a few more things. You can't carry any other student pilots or passengers; and if you have a pilot with you, he's in command of your plane. You can't fly any kind of a plane except the type endorsed on your certificate. If you lay off for ninety days, you'll have to have a flight check before you fly solo again. Last of all, you'll have to maintain a pilot logbook to verify your hours of solo flight before cross-country, and later your hours of solo, dual, and crosscountry."

"That sounds pretty easy. When can we get started?"

"Just as soon as you bring me a doctor's certificate, saying that you're not sick, lame, or lazy," Nick answered.

"I don't know about the lazy part," Tom said, flashing a broad grin, "but I'm pretty sure about the rest of it."

There may have been periods in his life when he had been busier than during the weeks that followed, but Tom could not remember any such times. Work at Nick's shop kept him occupied during weekdays; supply duties and participation in the squadron training took care of most of his spare hours. Somehow, though, he managed to find additional moments in which to read everything he could lay his hands on about flying. He studied the regulations pertaining to piloting until he practically had them memorized. Books and pamphlets dealing with navigation, weather and the operation of aircraft, he devoured as fast as he could procure them. And during his working hours, whenever Nick gave the signal, he applied himself to his flying lessons.

The ex-sergeant was a natural teacher. Easy and affable in manner, he nonetheless was an exacting taskmaster. Whether on the ground or in the air, he tolerated nothing less than perfection in his pupil. Every question he asked had to be answered correctly and each answer had to be thoroughly understood; every aerial maneuver he supervised had to be faultlessly performed, and each performance had to be repeated, time and time again. Every check he made, every drill he demanded, had to be flawless from start to finish. At times Tom grew discouraged, but instead of sympathy, he received only additional exercises and greater pressure.

One hot August afternoon, just after his pupil had completed a series of practice take-offs and landings, Nick climbed out of the ship. There was a scowl on his face, and Tom feared that he was angry, particularly since the flyer seemed about to terminate the instruction earlier than usual.

"Shall I taxi over to the hangar?" Tom asked, remaining in the pilot's compartment.

"Nope," Nick growled, still frowning. "You're ready to solo. Take 'er up."

Tom gulped. Wondering if he had misunderstood Nick, he asked, "Uh . . . solo?"

"That's right," Nick barked. "Up to fifteen hundred feet, circle the field three times and then bring 'er down."

A tremor of excitement flooded over Tom. This was the moment he had been waiting for. All the study and practice of the past had been leading up to this and this alone. One thing came to him in a flash: he was ready. He was ready! He knew it, and Nick Crynes knew it. Almost as suddenly as his excitement had mounted, it subsided. In its place came a cool deliberateness. Smiling broadly, and directing a brazen wink at his instructor, he closed and secured the cabin door.

All business now, concentrating on every move, he slowly taxied the plane across the field and down to one end of the runway. Quickly he checked each instrument and methodically tried out the controls. He eased the throttle forward, revving the motor and listening to the steady, even beat; then he cut down the r.p.m. Glancing about, he searched the skies for any sign of aircraft in the neighborhood; finally he looked around the field to see that the runway was clear. He spotted Nick, standing over near the hangar, and from him received a "thumbs up" signal.

As Tom swung the nose of the little ship about, pointing it down the runway, he pushed forward on the throttle. The L-5 jumped forward. Bouncing along the grassy strip, it quickly gathered speed. Now the tail surface rose, and Tom gently worked the stick backward. Suddenly the bouncing stopped, to be replaced by an even, swift motion. The ground fell behind rapidly, fading to the rear as the ship sliced through the summer air. Down below, a few moments later, Tom saw the airfield.

He was in the sky, alone, the master of an airplane ....

The quick exultation that he felt was only momentary, for he was mindful of a critical observer below. He devoted himself now to taking the ship to the altitude that Nick had given him, nosing it upward in a steady climb. Leveling at fifteen hundred feet, he banked the craft gently, swinging it once around the area, then twice more. All too quickly, his time above the earth passed, and he was pointing the plane down, dropping it out of the skies, to bring it in gently to a slow and easy landing. When the L-5 came to a stop he taxied it over to the hangar and cut the motor.

This time it was a gay and jubilant Nick that he saw. As he climbed out of the plane a rough, hardened paw grasped his hand, and the little instructor shouted, "Attaboy! You gave it a good ride. I couldn't have done better myself!"

Tom's face was wreathed with a wide, joyful grin. He could form no words in his mouth, and his mind was a mad jumble of emotions. Only one thing registered on his brain--he had soloed! He had taken an airplane off the ground, flown it and brought it back! He was a flyer!

Minutes later, thinking back on it, Tom's knees grew a trifle shaky and his mouth became dry. He wondered, as he fondly embraced the little ship with a glance, how he had managed to handle it.

He asked himself how he had avoided making mistakes, why he had not forgotten at least one important thing. Amazement--at himself, at the plane, at the whole idea of flying--was his one feeling.

"Well," he said finally, still finding it hard to believe that he was not imagining everything, "I guess that's all for today, eh Nick?"

The instructor chuckled. "I know how you feel, Tom. There won't be many times in your life when you'll get as much of a kick out of anything as you will from this."

"Boy!" Tom murmured happily. "You can say that again?

"There's another thing I know, too. You won't be worth a nickle around this place for the rest of the day. It's almost closing time anyway, so beat it and tell your family and friends that I said you flew your first flight like a veteran.

"See you tomorrow," Nick said with a laugh and a wave of the hand.

Needing no further encouragement, Tom started for town. On the off chance that some of the cadets might be in the drugstore that was their favorite hangout, he made for it on his way home. When he entered he saw a little group gathered around a corner table. Ralph, Ed and his sister Jane, and Red were working on milk shakes as he approached the table.

"Pull up a chair, Tom," Ralph called out.

"What's new at the field?" Red asked.

"Nothing much," Tom answered, finding it hard to keep his smile from spreading from one ear to the other.

"You look like the proverbial Cheshire," Jane observed. "What's happened?"

"Well," Tom said as nonchalantly as he could manage, "I guess I am sort of happy. I soloed this afternoon."

"You what!" Red exclaimed.

"You soloed! How wonderful!" Jane cried.

"Congratulations," Ralph said. "That's great."

"Gee, Tom! That's swell," Red said. "I'll buy a shake, and we'll all toast America's newest ace."

Brooking no refusal, his three friends insisted that Tom describe his experience step by step. Every time he paused for breath, one or the other shot questions at him, demanding that he explain in the greatest detail everything connected with his flight. Only Ed Dawson said nothing, masking any interest under an attitude of boredom as he aimlessly played with a soda straw. The others more than made up for his boorishness, though, for they plied Tom with queries until he begged for relief.

"C'mon, Jane. We're due home," her brother cut in curtly, as Tom started to answer a question from Ralph concerning the qualifications for a private pilot license.

"I hate to leave," Jane protested. "I want to hear all about that."

"If this wonderful solo is any example, you'll probably hear more than you can stand," Ed said with a sneer, rising and starting for the door.

A silence fell over the group, and Tom flushed with embarrassment.

"I'm sorry, Tom," Jane said softly, getting to her feet. "I wish I could be as proud of him just now as I am of you. Bye. I'll see you soon."

Ralph shook his head disgustedly, then asked, "What were you telling me about the private license, Tom? I want to know about that."

"Well... why don't we save it for another time, Ralph. It's getting late, and I'd better start for home," Tom said, ill at ease at the thought that he might have given the others an impression of bragging.

"Okay. But don't forget, because I'm interested and want to hear about it," Ralph said understandingly.

"Me, too," Red chimed in heartily. "If I can get my dad to raise my salary this summer, maybe I'll take a whirl at it, too."

Breaking away from his two friends, Tom started home. Once more Ed had provoked him, as he seemed so capable of doing with the slightest effort, but in no sense had he lessened Tom's elation over the events of the afternoon. Pleased with himself, he was no less gratified over the reactions of Jane, Ralph and Red. He pushed the unpleasant thought of Dawson to the back of his mind and told himself that it would take more than the latter's rudeness to affect him--for he had soloed. Now he was a flyer. And only time and work stood between him and a private pilot certificate.