with a headshake. “I wasn’t gonna snitch on him.”
“You think I don’t know that?”
Both boys snickered. Charlie said, “I didn’t hear him sneak back here. You?”
“Nope. Loud as he is, that’s how quiet he can be,” Aaron replied, stretching experimentally at the rubber. “This is the real stuff all right, five times as much as he sold me. I reckon you’re about the biggest, worst blackmailer on the planet. Sell me a quarter’s worth?”
“Naw. I’ll keep it ’til you need it bad and charge you double,” Charlie replied with a grin.
In Charlie the urge to compete was plain enough that it might have been painted on his forehead. Days later in the Fischer home, as his ally was cementing tiny sticks to the fuselage of a new model, Charlie rummaged into Aaron’s plans from older models. “If I can buy whole sheets of balsa I bet I could build this pretty quick,” he said, holding up a plan that showed a graceful sketch. “If you’d help.”
“Don’t you know there’s a war on?” Aaron spoke America’s commonest phrase, and applied a razor blade to a tiny stick. “Balsa makes life rafts. So bust up an apple box; the wood’s free.”
“Way too heavy though, right?”
Aaron paused to consider. “Not much, if you sanded the heck out of it. You have enough rubber to catapult it to Mars, but the only way it’d fly is fast.”
“Fast is good,” Charlie ruled. “And you’ll help?”
“For some of that rubber, sure. Hey, where’re you going?”
“There’s always old wood crates in the Ice House trash,” said Charlie, and promptly disappeared. Since Aaron lived near the Ice House, the seeker was back within minutes with pieces of three thin pine slats, only one of them badly splintered. Soon the boys had used a pencil to draw outlines of wings, a single graceful long oval for tail surfaces, and a fuselage whose rear end swooped up in a rudder like a shark’s tailfin. Now, the only way Aaron could resume his own task was to send Charlie home to work. Aaron filled him to the brim with instructions, some of which Charlie might even follow.
By dinnertime, Charlie had used his dad’s coping saw to cut all the pieces out following those pencil lines. He might have advanced to the whittling stage by then but for his habit of testing the pieces of pine after he cut them from the slats. His test method with each piece was the same: squint hard, imagine that this piece was finished and connected to all the others, then throw it across the shed, startling Lint with his special “ Neeerrrowr” sound effect that in his mind represented a powerful engine. It was always necessary to pretend that the piece did not flutter to the dirt floor like a dying sparrow.
“Looks like your durn dog chewed it out,” was Aaron’s judgment when he saw Charlie’s handiwork the next day. So saying, he found enough tools in the Hardin shed to neaten Charlie’s work, and used sandpaper to begin forming the wing surfaces. Presently he put the piece down. “I did one side,” he said, shaking sawdust from his hair. “Gotta go; I’ve got homework and so do you. I showed you how to sand a wing, and you can do the rest.”
Plainly hoping his pal would relent and do the whole thing for him, Charlie said, “But it won’t be as good.”
“It would if you’d watched what I’ve been doing instead of playing with that pooch,” was the retort, with an apologetic glance downward and, “Sorry, Lint,” to soften the criticism. A moment later Aaron hurried off.
Anger lent force to Charlie’s hands as he copied his friend’s work, or thought he did. Any fly on the wall might have noticed in Aaron a careful eye for detail, but a gift for action in Charlie. It followed that if Charlie sanded a pine slat twice as briskly as Aaron, his finished product would be somewhat thinner. He put his experimental sound effects to work, adding the kakakakakak of a machine gun for good measure, before smearing furniture
“You think I don’t know that?”
Both boys snickered. Charlie said, “I didn’t hear him sneak back here. You?”
“Nope. Loud as he is, that’s how quiet he can be,” Aaron replied, stretching experimentally at the rubber. “This is the real stuff all right, five times as much as he sold me. I reckon you’re about the biggest, worst blackmailer on the planet. Sell me a quarter’s worth?”
“Naw. I’ll keep it ’til you need it bad and charge you double,” Charlie replied with a grin.
In Charlie the urge to compete was plain enough that it might have been painted on his forehead. Days later in the Fischer home, as his ally was cementing tiny sticks to the fuselage of a new model, Charlie rummaged into Aaron’s plans from older models. “If I can buy whole sheets of balsa I bet I could build this pretty quick,” he said, holding up a plan that showed a graceful sketch. “If you’d help.”
“Don’t you know there’s a war on?” Aaron spoke America’s commonest phrase, and applied a razor blade to a tiny stick. “Balsa makes life rafts. So bust up an apple box; the wood’s free.”
“Way too heavy though, right?”
Aaron paused to consider. “Not much, if you sanded the heck out of it. You have enough rubber to catapult it to Mars, but the only way it’d fly is fast.”
“Fast is good,” Charlie ruled. “And you’ll help?”
“For some of that rubber, sure. Hey, where’re you going?”
“There’s always old wood crates in the Ice House trash,” said Charlie, and promptly disappeared. Since Aaron lived near the Ice House, the seeker was back within minutes with pieces of three thin pine slats, only one of them badly splintered. Soon the boys had used a pencil to draw outlines of wings, a single graceful long oval for tail surfaces, and a fuselage whose rear end swooped up in a rudder like a shark’s tailfin. Now, the only way Aaron could resume his own task was to send Charlie home to work. Aaron filled him to the brim with instructions, some of which Charlie might even follow.
By dinnertime, Charlie had used his dad’s coping saw to cut all the pieces out following those pencil lines. He might have advanced to the whittling stage by then but for his habit of testing the pieces of pine after he cut them from the slats. His test method with each piece was the same: squint hard, imagine that this piece was finished and connected to all the others, then throw it across the shed, startling Lint with his special “ Neeerrrowr” sound effect that in his mind represented a powerful engine. It was always necessary to pretend that the piece did not flutter to the dirt floor like a dying sparrow.
“Looks like your durn dog chewed it out,” was Aaron’s judgment when he saw Charlie’s handiwork the next day. So saying, he found enough tools in the Hardin shed to neaten Charlie’s work, and used sandpaper to begin forming the wing surfaces. Presently he put the piece down. “I did one side,” he said, shaking sawdust from his hair. “Gotta go; I’ve got homework and so do you. I showed you how to sand a wing, and you can do the rest.”
Plainly hoping his pal would relent and do the whole thing for him, Charlie said, “But it won’t be as good.”
“It would if you’d watched what I’ve been doing instead of playing with that pooch,” was the retort, with an apologetic glance downward and, “Sorry, Lint,” to soften the criticism. A moment later Aaron hurried off.
Anger lent force to Charlie’s hands as he copied his friend’s work, or thought he did. Any fly on the wall might have noticed in Aaron a careful eye for detail, but a gift for action in Charlie. It followed that if Charlie sanded a pine slat twice as briskly as Aaron, his finished product would be somewhat thinner. He put his experimental sound effects to work, adding the kakakakakak of a machine gun for good measure, before smearing furniture
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