Free Flight of the Tiger Moth by Mary Woodbury Page A

– and Trevor and Basil are going to sing in the choir and help us put on a concert for Labour Day.”
    “Is Bill all right?” asked Dr. McLeod. “Should I go over to your house?”
    “It’s his bones that need fixing, not his soul, Ian.” The minister’s wife laughed. “You just want to go talk to Bill, admit it.”
    Jack grabbed a couple of cookies, threw himself into a folding chair, and described the afternoon’s adventures. Then he remembered Ivy’s request. “Mom wants to know when Cathy’s coming home. She needs another strong alto.”
    “Oho, do I sense a little conspiracy?” asked Mrs. McLeod. “Just how old are Trevor and Basil?”
    “Well, they’ve got to be over eighteen to be in the raf,” said ­Jack.
    “Cathy’s been so busy at Normal School learning how to be a teacher that I don’t think she’s had time for a boyfriend,” said ­Wes.
    “She’ll have plenty of time for that nonsense when she’s older,” said Dr. McLeod. “She’s taking the summer off and then she’s been hired to teach elementary school right here in Cairn.”
    “When’s she coming home?” asked ­Jack.
    “She’ll be on the train tonight.” Mrs. McLeod gathered up the tea things and carried them ­inside.
    “I’ll pop over and see how Bill is,” said Dr. ­McLeod.
    “We’ll go for a walk and check out the poison ivy crop,” said ­Wes.
    “Don’t you go sneaking any baseball mitts with you,” his father said. “Think what the church elders would say.”
    As the boys strolled down the street Jack said, “If it weren’t for the church elders, I bet he’d let you play games on a Sunday afternoon.”
    “Dad doesn’t think God is as fussy as old farmers. Neither do I. Jesus wasn’t much for following the rules and regulations of his day.”
    “I guess you’re right,” Jack said. “I let Trevor and Basil take Buddy to the base.”
    “As a mascot? That sounds like a good idea.”
    “I didn’t have a chance to talk it over with you. Do you think I did the right thing?”
    “Tell me more about Trevor and Basil.”
    “They are great!” Jack said. “As I said they’re going to join the choir and they want to write a musical revue for Labour Day weekend.”
    “Then chances are Buddy’s in good hands, Jackie.”
    The boys strolled through town, hands in their pockets, kicking pebbles ahead of them. Jimmy Boyle, home from Moose Jaw, drove past them in his dad’s ­beat-­up pickup truck. He shook his fist at Jack, raced his motor and sped out of ­town.
    “What a jerk!”
    “Dad says the Boyles step dance. Who would have guessed?”
    Wes shook his head. “I, for one, can’t see them doing it. Jimmy doesn’t look like a dancer. More like a boxer. What’s he mad at you for?”
    “His dad probably got after him,” replied Jack. “I think he’s mad because I rescued Buddy and because I got a ‘cushy’ job at the airfield.”
    “You work hard, Jack.”
    “Jimmy doesn’t know that.”
    The two friends walked to the tiny park at the end of the block. Jack flopped down on an old ­swing.
    “Trevor looks awfully young to be a pilot.” Wes hung upside down from the frame of a baby swing that was long gone, then somersaulted to the ­ground.
    “Dad said a lot of the English boys lie about their age to get in the air force. Maybe Trevor did. He doesn’t need to shave yet. I could tell looking at him.”
    Wes laughed. “If he did, he’s not the only one around here that hasn’t told the whole truth. You’ve got a few secrets of your own.”
    “If you ever tell, I’ll –”
    “I know. It’s a secret I have to take to the grave with me. How Jack Waters learned to fly.”
    “Don’t push me, Wes.”
    “I cross my heart and hope to die. Okay?”
    “Wes,” his mother called from the McLeods’ front porch. “Time to go. Dad is taking us to the Ambassador Café in Moose Jaw before we fetch Cathy.”
    Wes hurried away, leaving Jack swinging lazily. He thought about Basil and