Clint's summer went by on wings, wings shining with hope, wings heavy with waiting, great droning wings beckoning to him.

From before sunup till past sundown he and his father would cram the hours with work.

Then after supper the two would drop down on the creaky old plank steps of the ranch house,

talking a little sometimes, often simply resting there, each one quietly thinking his own thoughts.

For Clint, the bright spot now in ranch life was the regular zooming of the air-mail over the mountains.

How he watched for that glint of wings! "Some day," he would promise himself, ' 'I, too, shall fly!

Twice during the summer the people of the mountainside met for an all-day picnic and barbecue.

Here he learned that all the boys wanted to fly, or thought they did.

But Clint knew he wanted to fly, knew it more deeply every day.

Of course he could not earn enough money to go into training this fall.

But perhaps the next fall. Or surely the year after. So he worked and saved.

He subscribed for a magazine on aviation, and he read up on aircraft until he knew every detail of how an airplane is constructed and operated.

On the first of November Mr. Warren started off to town in the morning on business.

"Look out for the goats, Clint, if a rain should blow up, was his farewell warning to his son.

"You know they can't stand a wet norther. I shall be gone for a day or two.

If the sky isn't clear in the morning, the herders know that they are not to take the goats out till the sun shines, even if they have to wait until noon.

All you've got to see to is that they're penned at night. Good-by."