ON THE WING
Hal Dane's blond head was in a whirl. In sixty brief minutes Maben had
tried to cram into his cranium all the vast maze of desperately
important facts that one needs must master prior to stunting and
parachuting.
They were up in the air now, zooming over the city. Young Dane had on
his first real flying suit. He leaned back awkwardly against the pack of
his parachute. He had never had on one of the things before. There was
something else new, the speaking tube with earpieces that fitted up
under the helmet. Maben was talking through it now.
"City looks pretty down there--trees and houses all flattened out like
pictures on a rug. I'll circle you over the Fairgrounds next, so you can
see the clear space you're to come down in. Got a mob to watch us, ain't
we?"
Hal felt grateful to Maben. He knew all this kindly rambling talk was
indulged in to keep a raw new amateur stunter's mind off the coming
crisis.
Above them the sky was bright and beautiful; scarcely a cloud flecked
it. Below them little black dots milled around in every direction. That
would be the crowd swarming out to enjoy the vicarious thrill of seeing
someone else in the air. There were tiny waving threads that must be
flags, and a decorated stand where a band was probably blaring.
"Feel your strap--good and tight--for sure?" Maben's voice rumbled to
him. "Got to do my part of the stunting now."
There came a sudden change in the behavior of the plane. Instead of
straight flying, Maben began to put it through an intricate series of
stunts. He went into nose spins, tail spins, falling leaves, and loop
the loops. It was a breath-taking exhibit, at times seemingly reckless
beyond all warrant. Yet there was never a slip nor careen to the ship.
For perhaps half an hour this continued, then the plane straightened out
in a long graceful glide.
"Your time next, kid," muttered Maben, "and for Scott's sake, hold on
and be careful. Don't try to give 'em too much for their money."
Hal pulled the earpieces of the speaking tube from under his helmet and
climbed out of the cockpit.
He stood on the lower wing surface, holding on by a strut, waiting. Over
his left shoulder he had a glimpse of the pilot's strained face.
Maben was circling the plane lower and lower, flying just above the
trees and the grandstand to catch the eye of the crowd.
Ready, go! It was the time. Hal, clinging to the strut, poised to walk
out on that wing piece of fragile wood strips and cloth, had the ghastly
feeling that his heart had stopped beating. Then its pounding sent the
blood roaring to his ears.
No treat, this wing walking business! Suppose the pilot shoved the stick
or jazzed the engine!
But Max Maben held his speed to a level; no dropping, no high-riding.
Nice work! The ship steady on all axes, calm as a rocking chair in a
parlor!
Hal's terror wave passed. He stood free of the strut, walked, bowed, cut
a step or two. With a man like Maben at the stick to hold her steady,
this was nothing. No more than walking the boards of some earth-bound
floor. All you had to do was to keep your mind on your feet, and not
look over the edge. Through Hal shot a sudden daring desire to climb a
strut to the top wing of the biplane, to stand there erect, outlined
against the sky. He gripped a support preparatory to a climb.
Maben's signal stopped him. It came sharply, the signal they had
arranged upon, two quick taps on the fuselage. Hal turned. The pilot was
glaring at him from under fiercely drawn brows, and his mouth was in a
set line. Swiftly Maben gave the next signal, three taps. That meant the
ship was going to climb for altitude for the parachute jump.
The altimeter began to mark up--fifteen hundred, eighteen hundred, two
thousand. Maben made a level movement with one hand. That meant all was
ready. In slow reversements, Maben held the ship over the center of the
field below.
"Go!" tapped the four beats of the signal.
Hal was out on the wing tip. He made a movement towards space, froze
back into a crouch and felt frenziedly back at his parachute. Suppose it
were not there! Suppose he had never put it on! His fingers touched the
compact bulk of the 'chute that dangled gawkily from shoulder straps and
belt straps. Hal braced himself, shamed at his childishness. No more
fooling. He must go this time.
Steady, go!
Hal Dane stepped off the wing edge and dropped into space.
The pull-off swung him like a toy. Everything went black. He shut his
eyes, opened them again. The earth seemed to gyrate below him. Above
him, the zoom of the ship.
He must pull the rip cord of the 'chute. No, no--not yet! Must wait,
must be no danger of tearing silken fabric against a whirl of the plane.
Down, down. Top speed. Heart in throat. Ghastly shriek of air in his
face. His head was going down. He must kick, keep the slant. Maben had
said, "Keep your head up--head down gives you one bustin' yank in the
middle when she opens up!"
One, two, four, six,--twenty--no use to count heartbeats--heart must
have thumped a thousand times by now. No time to waste. Earth looked
like it was coming up. Now! Now! He must pull the rip cord!
Down, down. The thing hadn't opened! Suppose--
The great silk lobe opened out with a "pow-a" like a cannon shot.
The lightning speed drop was checked suddenly, and the parachute harness
tightened about him at the pull. He seemed to drop no more. He felt that
he was only floating, a mere dot against the immensity of the skies. He
seemed an unreality, a swaying atom drifting in the gulfs of space. The
earth that a moment ago had seemed coming up to meet him now seemed a
thousand miles away. Would he ever come down, touch foot on that earth
again?
As the great inverted chalice of the silken parachute ceased its
oscillations, the earth also ceased its tremendous rise and fall. It
seemed to stand steady below Hal Dane, and he was approaching it faster
than he had thought.
The boy suddenly remembered to cross his legs (Max Maben's orders), lest
he straddle a telephone wire, a church steeple or something equally
disastrous.
A feeling of terrible helplessness was upon him. Nothing that he could
do could change his direction. The wind could do that though. A sudden
gust could blow him out over water, ram him against a stone building,
hurl him before a rushing train.
But no wind arose. He was coming straight down. The crowd below seemed
scattering to give him room. He looked up, saw Maben climbing down from
the skies to meet him.
On the field, men were running forward to catch his heels as he touched
earth. Many hands helped him hold down against the tug of the parachute,
while he worked at the clips of the harness. As the straps fell away and
he stepped free, Maben landed and taxied towards him.
"Kid, you did it!" Maben's brown hands gripped his shoulder and turned
him about to face the applause of the crowd that had gone crazy with
clapping and shouting. Swept away by relaxation of the tense excitement,
those near him pounded him, tried to hoist him on shoulders for a
parade.
It was Hal's first taste of glory. It thrilled him, but he soon longed
to get away from it all. As soon as he could he ducked and escaped and
followed in the direction of Maben, whom he had seen trundling the plane
into seclusion behind the grandstand.
"Say!" Maben turned on him in mock fierceness, "I'm of a mind to kick
you for overstunting on that plane wing. No use being too risky--just
plain foolishness, that. But, kid," the aviator's habitually tense face
relaxed into a boyish grin. "I'll say you made that come down
O. K.,--all jake! An old-timer couldn't have done it prettier. Listen, I
got a proposition I want to make you!"