The Brighton boys were all keen on flying. What boys are not? Their
interest had been stimulated particularly, however, by the news, the
year before, that Harry Corwin's big brother Will, an old Brighton boy
of years past, had gone to France with the American flying squadron
attached to the French Army in the field. True, Will was only a
novice and the latest news of him from France told that he had not as
yet actually flown a machine over the German lines, but he was a
tangible something in which the interest of the schoolboys could center.
An airdrome near the town! What wonders would be worked under his very
eyes, thought Jimmy. Flying was a thing that no one could hide behind
a tall fence. Besides, there were no high fences around the Frisbie
place. Well Jimmy knew it. Its broad acres and wide open spaces were
well known to every boy at Brighton Academy, for within its boundaries
was the finest hill for coasting that could be found for miles. In
winter-time, when the hillsides were deep with snow, Frisbie's slope
saw some of the merriest coasting parties that ever felt the
exhilaration of the sudden dash downward as the bright runners skimmed
the hard, frosty surface.
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