At Atlantic City, on the beach, opposite to the newest
ten-million-dollar hotel, stood a huge tent of unusual shape, guyed
down and double guyed with wire cable for security. Its occupant and
owner was viewing with critical satisfaction the beautiful,
wide-winged flying-boat which balanced so gracefully on its truck,
stretching from one far canvas wall right across to the other, when
he was suddenly overwhelmed by a breathless young man in a dusty
uniform who demanded fiercely:
“Jim, I want you to _give_ me your bus right away.”
This Jim was another of those men whose nerves do not start at
sudden and unexpected happenings.
“Sure,” he said without hesitation. “Want to go joy riding?” And he
held out his hand.
“No, no, you don’t understand,” the other panted. “I want you to
give it to me--to wreck!”
Jim’s voice became serious, though the slow smile never left his
face. He seated himself methodically on a tool-box.
“Button off the power, Jack; come to earth and tell us all about
it,” he said quietly.
Jack told him, in fierce sentences and few.
“So, you see, Jim, it’s make or break,” he concluded, “and we’ve got
no time to lose. Come on!”
Jim sat solid on his tool-box.
“Wait a minute, Jack,” he said soberly. “This is a big thing you’re
asking me. There’s ten thousand dollars gone into this outfit, and
it’s all I’ve got in the world; it’s my last stake. Half of it’s not
mine, anyhow. I had to get backing, and it’s not nearly paid off.
“This passenger work isn’t the gold-mine any more that it used to
be; I can’t charge these summer sports more than fifteen dollars a
jump; upkeep is something fierce; and I’m still in the hole for
about three thousand bucks. I figured to clear by the end of the
season.”
“But don’t you see, Jim,” Rankin appealed piteously, “it’s the only
way! And she’s running right into deadly danger! My ship! A United
States fighting-ship, Jim. And--and--” His voice trailed away
searching hopelessly for something to say, some conclusive argument
that would accomplish his purpose.
Jim sat motionless. His face had the torn, introspective expression
of Rodin’s “Thinker.” Presently his voice came in a ruminative
monotone through lips that scarcely opened:
“And Uncle Sam needs his ships mighty bad just now, eh?” Then
suddenly: “Hell!” he shouted, and jumped to his feet. “Damn our old
uncle, anyway! Stick your head out of the flap and holler for my
mechanics.”
Rankin jumped at him with both hands outstretched.
“Jim! I knew you’d do it! You’re white all through!”
“Aw, hell,” muttered Jim again with gruff discomfort, pushing him
off. “Get busy and fill up that gas-tank to the last drop you can
make her hold, while I get into my helmet and togs.”
“Your togs! What d’you want your gear for?”
Jim’s jaw was thrust out with belligerence.
“If Uncle Sam needs you on this job,” he said doggedly, “he needs
me, too. This is a two-man stunt. Shut up now, and beat it.”
The next few minutes were a whirlwind of strenuous effort,
punctuated with snapped question and fired-back answer and swift
directions to the sweating mechanics. Under their practised handling
the machine was ready for its great task in record time.
“I swiped a Sperry synchronized driftset and compass from the yard,
Jim,” panted Rankin.
“You did!” shouted Jim, and his face lit. “That’s the first slim
chance I see, then, of our picking up your darned ship. Mighty like
hunting the needle in the haystack anyway. How far’s she out?”
“Commandant said two hundred miles.”
“Good stuff! If any bus in the country can do it, mine will. She
makes just over the hundred per hour, and she’s fitted with every
mechanical improvement there is.”
There was a note of regretful farewell in the tone. He had been very
proud of his machine; and she certainly was the acme of American
aeronautic skill.
_Stagger_, she had, and _dihedral_, and _retreat_, mystic
technicalities of wing construction which came very near to
realizing the dreamer’s goal of automatic stability. Control wires
had a safety factor of eight. There was a dashboard before each of
the dual control yokes dotted with a maze of glass-dialed
instruments.
The two seats were tandem, with telephonic communication so that the
occupants could converse above the roar of the engine. Nothing, in
fact, which might contribute to speed and safety and accuracy had
been omitted. And now--she was going out into the approaching night
beyond her capacity of return, like a swimmer who swims out to sea
beyond the limit of his strength. No wonder that the owner swore at
his old Uncle Sam even while he made his gift.
On the beach, where the great machine floated like some graceful,
swift storm petrel, Jim suddenly pushed Rankin to the rear seat.
“What’s the matter?” asked Rankin hurriedly. “Aren’t you going to
fly her?”
“Nope,” said Jim with determination. “’S your job. You’re a better
flier anyway. Me for the instruments. I’ve been boning up a lot on
this new dope about wave crest length and wind ratio and bomb
dropping and all. Kinder hoped to get a commission myself--once;
but--hell! Hop in and make your tests. If I’m in on this funeral I’m
going to phone good-by to the girl.”
Then for the first time did Rankin remember his girl, and her trust,
and his promise, and what it meant between him and her.
He hesitated a moment; he, too, would have liked to telephone. For
he was very human and just then some mysterious providence or other
which looks after those who strive with a great purpose flashed to
him a vague realization of his own weakness. Telephoning, the voice
on the wire, with its note of appeal from the purely personal view
point of the woman who waited, might undermine that high resolve. He
set his teeth and climbed into the seat ready for action.
With lips hard pinched, he tested his controls to see that
everything was running smoothly. He tested the Christensen
self-starter. With an explosive whir the propeller caught up the
ignition. He ran the engine at idling speed, watching his oil
pressure and water gages for free feeding. Everything ran with the
smoothness of a fine watch.
Jim came running.
“Give her the gun!” he shouted, hurling himself into his seat.
Rankin pulled back the throttle lever. With a roar the propeller
took up its speed; the tachometer dial jumped to fifteen thousand
revolutions; and the beautiful great bird glided out from the shore,
trusting to fate to attain its purpose.
Rankin pulled tentatively on the elevator control. The machine
answered beautifully; lifted at once to its planing angle and
skimmed the surface. Rankin hauled back, on the control.
“How does she climb?” he asked into the telephone mouthpiece which
rose from his chest.
“’Bout six hundred,” came the muffled reply from the observer’s seat
in front. “Let her go.”