"We won't go far, just
twenty or thirty miles or so."
The two youths emerged from the house and started across the big
lawn toward the aeroplane sheds, for Tom Swift owned several speedy
aircrafts, from a big combined aeroplane and dirigible balloon, to a
little monoplane not much larger than a big bird, but which was the
most rapid flier that ever breathed the fumes of gasolene.
"Which one you going to take, Tom?" asked Ned, as his chum paused in
front of the row of hangars.
"Oh, the little double-seated monoplane, I guess that's in good
shape, and it's easy to manage. When I'm out for fun I hate to be
tinkering with levers and warping wing tips all the while. The Lark
practically flies herself, and we can sit back and take it easy.
I'll have Eradicate fill up the gasolene tank, while I look at the
magneto. It needs a little adjusting, though it works nearly to
perfection since I put in some of that new platinum we got from the
lost mine in Siberia."
"Yes, that was a trip that amounted to something. I wouldn't mind
going on another like that, though we ran lots of risks."
"We sure did," agreed Tom, and then, raising his voice he called
out: "Rad, I say Rad! Where are you? I want you!"
"Comin', massa Tom, comin'," answered an aged colored man, as he
shuffled around the corner of the shed.
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