The Time Pirate by Ted Bell Page A

plywood. It looked awful, but Nick knew it would eventually be painted bright red. And now that Gunner had covered the entire frame with Irish linen, the Camel was starting to look like a real aeroplane again.
    â€œThe fabric looks kind of wrinkly, don’t you think, Gunner?” Nick said carefully, not wanting to hurt Gunner’s feelings.
    â€œAye. That’s why we paint the whole thing with this stuff,” he said, opening the first of many cans of a clear, foul-smelling liquid.
    â€œWhat’s that?”
    â€œIt’s called nitrate dope. Or just dope. As it dries, it will shrink the linen till its tight as a drum. Then we’ll add colors to the dope to paint the whole plane. She’ll be a beauty, lad, just you wait!”

    This morning, Gunner had the U-boat searchlight focused on the engine. This was the part Nick had been most worried about. All the spit and polish on earth didn’t matter a hoot if they couldn’t get that old Bentley engine Gunner had overhauled to fire.
    â€œNow, here’s the thing, Nick—hand me that spanner, will you please—as I say, here’s the thing. There’s a lot to be done before we even try to get her to turn over.”
    Gunner was up on a wooden ladder leaning against the fuse-lage. One by one, he removed the spark plugs from the engine and handed them to Nick. They were corroded, but Gunner had Nick drop them into a pail of alcohol and said they’d be as good as new after a good soaking. Once he was finished preparing the twenty-year-old engine to start, he’d re-install them.
    â€œBe so kind as to hand up that oil can, will you, Nick?”
    Gunner took the can and carefully squirted oil into the holes where the plugs had been. It was a painfully slow process for a boy as impatient as Nick McIver.
    â€œSmells just like the stuff Mother makes me take every day. Castor oil.”
    â€œThat’s because it is castor oil. Only thing these engines will burn. And they burn a lot of it.”
    â€œWhat are you doing now, Gunner?”
    â€œLubricating the cylinders, which are dry as bone after allthese years. Pistons would freeze up if we didn’t do this right. Rings might be rusty, too, y’know—can’t be too careful.”
    â€œRight,” Nick said, trying to understand everything he could about how this flying machine worked. He never knew when he might need that information when Gunner wasn’t around to help him.
    â€œRight, that oughta do it,” Gunner said, climbing down from the ladder, wiping his hands on his trousers.
    â€œGunner, for an old navy man, you seem to know an awful lot about aeroplanes.”
    â€œWell . . .” Gunner said, his brow furrowing as he searched for words, “I was interested in these things for a while, y’know, but my heart was always out at sea.”
    Nick laughed. “I know that feeling! So. We’re going to fire her up now?”
    â€œLord, no, boy, we’ve got to lubricate her first!”
    â€œHow do we do that?”
    â€œWell, first of all, we make sure the magnetos are disconnected. If they weren’t, and she happened to catch, we’d be chopped to pieces.”
    Gunner climbed halfway up the ladder and pulled out the two twin knobs that were the magneto switches, mounted on the fuselage just outside the cockpit.
    â€œReady to go, lad. All you have to do is take hold of the propeller and turn it very slowly. A few times in one direction, a few times in the other, and then repeat the whole thing three or four times. Got it?”
    â€œAye. But what does that do?” Nick asked, grimacing. Turning the prop was surprisingly difficult. Nick supposed that was because the whole engine spun with the propeller.
    â€œDon’t you worry, boy, it gets easier.”
    â€œHow?”
    â€œCastor oil gets spread around inside. Gets the pistons moving up and down inside the cylinders. Spreads all that oil