The non-stop stowaway - The story of a long distance flight #703136

SUPPER was over. The man and the boy, although they had finished, seemed in no hurry to clear the table. Darkness had come, and through the windows of their little houseboat twinkling lights on the shore half a mile away were reflected in the quiet waters of the bay. All was still except for the putt-putt of a motor-boat a long way off. The man in blue trousers and white shirt with the collar open seemed to be listening for something. The boy tried hard to get him to talk.
“How long will Dad be, do you suppose?” “Will he come back by train, or will he fly back?” were some of his questions.
Jack’s reply to them all had been, “We’ll see.”
The boy thought to himself, “What a silly answer,” but that seemed to be all the silent sailor man would say. He looked little enough like a sailor now, and not nearly as grand and imposing as when he had met the boy and his father in New York as they stepped off the train on their arrival from the West nearly a month ago. At that time he had appeared in his uniform of blue with gold braid and gold wings. As they had driven out from the station across the crowded city with its strange noises and bewildering lights, there had been time to do little more than notice the slim straightness of him.
His Dad had said to Jack, after the first greetings were over, “Well, here’s the young fellow I wrote you about. I couldn’t leave him out West, and besides he will be a great help around the hangar.”