Even so his sleeve and collar were splashed with white when he reached home. He thought he saw a figure slipping out his back door, but he wasn't sure. He could see Mrs. Critch standing at the window, hands on hips, and could hear the eight o-clock news on TV. He hid the package in his jacket as best he could. He didn't need Mrs. Critch asking questions. Hobie had done enough of that.
CHAPTER 11
the sky was just growing light the next morning when Charlie skidded his bike to a stop beside the piano box. He had thought about Rory and the plane all night and had waked in the pitch dark wondering if they would still be there, or if he had imagined the whole thing. Well he had the hobby shop supplies. He had Rory's list and his change, didn't he? He hadn't imagined all that. He had turned on his light once around midnight, stared at Rory's small, square handwriting, grinned, then gone back to sleep.
The starlings passed him just as he left town, a screeching mass of birds that wheeled, tilted, and flew off to settle over the garbage dump. Already some trash trucks were unloading their Channing Creek night collection at the edge of the dump.
Rory and Crispin were out in front of the hangar sorting through a pile of junk they had gathered; wind-up trucks, mechanical dolls, an old clock. They had already taken several of the dolls apart, discarded the heads and bodies and laid the working mechanical parts in a neat row. Charlie admired everything in the hangar; the cots, the worktable, the array of tools, and the blue cashmere blankets Crispin had cut from a dog-chewed sweater. The plane looked great with the rust scrubbed off. Charlie watched Rory root through the hobby shop bag until he found the small tools. The kangaroo rat fished out a wrench and a screwdriver, then began to dismantle the clock he had found. The animal's forearms were not very long, nor did they seem to be the strongest part of him. But Rory threw all his weight onto the wrench again and again until he had the rusty gears removed. Charlie hunkered down beside him to watch.
"Going to rig up a dashboard control with these gears, sonny. So I can control the needle valve, control the gas going into the engine. But I'm not sure," Rory said, pausing to wrench free a particularly stubborn gear, "I'm not sure these gears are big enough. Have to give them a try, but . . ." he trailed off, took several more turns with the screwdriver, growled, "Flappin' rust!" Then put the whole thing down and stared up at Charlie. "Did you get everything on that list, sonny? I didn't see no propeller in there."
"I got everything but the propeller and the plugs and points. Hobie had to order the propeller; he said it might be in next week. The plugs and points are going to be harder. Hobie said they haven't made parts like that in years. He gave me the names of three people to write to—collectors—I did that last night. Maybe they'll have plugs and points they want to sell." Charlie tried to sound hopeful, but he wasn't.
If people collected something, why would they want to sell it? Particularly if things like that weren't made any more? He didn't mention his worry about the condenser. No sense in borrowing trouble. It was hard enough just keeping this whole thing secret, what with Hobie's questions, then having to smuggle the package past Mrs. Critch to avoid her curiosity. And then she had asked him questions anyway, making him think maybe she had caught a glimpse of the package through the window. Or maybe she just suspected something, what with him being late. Anyway, as she dished up dinner she had begun asking him about how much money his father had given him, and just what he'd done with it. Had Hobie told her he'd been in the hobby shop with a wad of bills? But Hobie wouldn't. At least Charlie hoped he wouldn't.
Rory opened the bag again and examined each item with care. He found the change wrapped in the sales slip and stuffed it into a tin can on the workbench.
"What are you going to do first?" Charlie asked. "Rig up those cogwheels for the needle valve?"
"No, sonny. I'm going to collect parts for a day or two and get the body work done. There'll be time while the glue's drying to take these rusted, infernal toys apart. By the time the prop gets here I ought to have the body repaired, the new cowling built, and the ailerons built and installed. And once we get that prop, sonny, we can find out how that engine runs! We'll just put the batteries in, pour in a little gas, flip that new prop, and give her a try!"
If she runs, Charlie thought. If you can really bring it off, you crazy animal. He stared at the kangaroo rat, at the scattered gears and tools, and he thought that what Rory was trying to do was just wild.
It took ten days for the new prop to arrive. Charlie didn't see too much of the animals for a few days because the town had hit on a new scheme to get rid of the starlings, and Charlie, along with everyone else, had been staying up part of the night to turn the garden hose on the starlings to drive them off the roofs and make them so uncomfortable they would leave permanently. They didn't leave, of course, and at last the town had given up. Mrs. Critch had made him stay in bed in the daytime whether he could sleep or not, which he couldn't. When it was over, he was so gone for sleep that when the prop arrived he hardly remembered what should be in the package. Not until he opened it and found the prop did he come fully awake. He started right out to the dump with it, remembered that Rory would want some gas to try the engine, and swung back to dig a gas can out of his garage. He stopped at the Eagle Station to get the can filled, then went on to the dump.
Rory and Crispin were working away like crazy. Rory had mended the wing and repaired the hole in the fuselage. He had built a new cowling, too, which stood ready to cover the engine, and when Charlie arrived Rory was working on the rudder. He still had the ailerons to build and install. "And we're going to need a new windshield, sonny. Better get some plastic next time you're in the hobby shop. Can't find a thing out here that's fit to use."
"It's looking terrific, Rory."
"Well that's only the outside, sonny. Still have all the controls to rig. And the gas tank to put in. The flappin' tank should've been done first thing. You'd think there'd be plenty of cans the right size in the dump! The place is full of cans—cola cans, peanut cans, great big gallon cans—but not a flappin' thing the right size. Sure can't fly her with that dinky gas tank she's got now. We'd be landing to refuel every five minutes! You'd better ask in that hobby shop if they have a half-gallon tank, but I don't think they will. Sixteen ounces'll be about the biggest, I bet.
"We've fixed the cockpit seats so they come out and that section in between comes out. We're going to have to slip the tank in through the cockpits when we find it. Going to have to keep all the flappin' controls over to the side of the instrument panel, too, to get the tank past 'em. Flappin' nuisance!"
The body work had not been easy, Rory had had some trouble getting the hinges for the ailerons and rudder installed securely enough to suit him, and twice Crispin had glued his paws into the balsa ribs and had to be unstuck with hot water, making Rory cross at the delay. And then, of course, putting the paper smoothly over the balsa structure was a really touchy job. It had to be put on wet so it would shrink, and when it was wet it was delicate and hard to handle. It pulled and tore so easily that the two animals were in a terrible temper, shouting and snarling at each other before they got it smooth.
Now Charlie stood holding the can of gas and the new prop as he watched Rory tear out cogwheels from inside the cockpit and replace them with stronger ones from a toy derrick Crispin had found. "Flappin' clock's innards were too small," Rory growled. "I was afraid of that. But these babies'll do it, they'll control the fuel mixture just fine. Try 'er, sonny," he said as he tightened the last bolt.