Tim yelled until it seemed his lungs would burst but the roar of the
Lark's own powerful motor drowned out his cries. Finally Ralph, who had
been working desperately in the cockpit of his own plane, looked up at
his chum. Death was staring him in the face, but there was no hint of
fear in the eyes that gazed at Tim.
The flying reporter signalled Ralph to reach for the lever which opened
the emergency gas tank. If there was fuel in the reserve tank, the motor
might catch again and they would have another chance.
The lever which controlled the valve of the emergency tank was on the
other side of the cockpit and Tim, hanging on his precarious perch,
watched his chum strain to reach it. Ralph lunged toward the lever and
his outstretched hands knocked it open. The fuel flooded down into the
carburetor and hissed into the red hot cylinders. With a quiver the
engine of the training plane came to life.
Tim couldn't restrain a shout as he saw Ralph gain control of the plane
again.
Hunter lost no time in bringing the ships together and the Lark crept
down and over the upper wing of Ralph's plane.
Tim steeled himself for the attempt. He had never tried to change from
one plane to another but he had watched the stunt a dozen times. The
feat looked easy then, but actually to attempt it with a friend's life
in the balance was an entirely different thing.
Just ahead Tim could see the flashing arc of the propeller of Ralph's
plane. If Hunter misjudged the distance, if they struck a bump, if--if
any one of half a dozen things happened he might be thrown into the
deadly whirl. But Hunter was a master pilot and----
Before Tim's madly racing mind could conjure up other thoughts they were
over Ralph's plane. Six feet, five feet, four feet separated the under
carriage of the Lark from the upper wing of the training ship. Tim
released his hold on the axle.
The next moment the air was forced from his lungs as he sprawled against
the surface of the wing. His desperately reaching fingers hooked
themselves over the wires along the upper edge of the wing and he was
safe.
Tim was stiff from the cold and bruised by his fall but he swiftly made
his way in from the tip of the wing and crawled down into the forward
cockpit. His action was not a moment too soon for the supply of fuel in
the reserve tank was exhausted. He grabbed the dual controls in the
forward cockpit and within thirty seconds had set the plane down on the
field. Hunter, who had beaten him down, ran toward him and together they
clambered into the rear cockpit.
Ralph's face was drawn with lines of pain.
"I guess I've made a supreme mess of things," he gritted, before they
could ask him what had happened.
A doctor who had been summoned by one of the mechanics when Tim and
Hunter went aloft, shoved Hunter aside and slipped into the cockpit
beside Ralph, whose legs, useless, were doubled under him.
"Here you chaps," called the doctor, "help me lift this boy out of
here." Together they hoisted Ralph out of the cockpit and carried him
into the office where they laid him on a cot in Hunter's room.
The doctor's examination required only a few minutes and he was smiling
when he turned to the others in the room.
"Nothing serious," he reassured them. "When he had that crackup this
morning he bruised his legs pretty badly and also strained his back. The
reaction took place this afternoon and resulted in a temporary paralysis
of the legs. Keep him good and warm for an hour or two and he'll be O.
K. His legs may be a little sore and stiff for a day or two but that's
all."
The doctor picked up his things and departed. When he had gone, Ralph
looked up at Tim, his eyes clouded with grief.
"I'm sorry I'm such a flop, Tim," he said. "I tried hard to make good
because you told Carson I could do it."
"Make good?" exclaimed Tim. "Why Ralph, you're a flyer if ever there was
one. It takes nerves and brains to do what you did this afternoon to
keep a ship aloft with your legs paralyzed and your gas supply dwindling
down to nothing. Believe me, that was flying."
The cold winds of winter had been replaced by the warmer breezes of
early spring and clouds that had been heavy with snow unleashed their
burden of rain. It was poor weather for flying and Tim, after checking
over his plane, was preparing to leave the airport.
The deep humming of a powerful motor attracted his attention and he
turned toward the sound. Out of the low gray clouds in the west a black
monoplane flashed into view. It was coming fast and low. The craft shot
over the field and as it flashed by, Tim noted that it was a dull black.
The fact that there were no numbers indicating its department of
commerce rating troubled him. Then the pilot of the unknown plane banked
sharply, and with motor on full, sped back over the field.
An arm flashed over the edge of the fuselage and a white object floated
down. Tim splashed across the muddy field and retrieved the letter from
the puddle in which it had fallen. By that time the black plane had
disappeared with only a faint drumming of its motor to tell of its
passing.
The flying reporter held the letter gingerly. When he turned it over he
was astounded to find that it was addressed to him. On the envelope, in
a rough scrawl, were the words, "For Tim Murphy."
Tim tore open the envelope and extracted the single sheet of plain
paper. The words were few but they burned their way into his mind.
"Murphy," he read, "you've spoiled my game once. Don't do it again." It
was signed, "The Sky Hawk."
A queer feeling, certainly not that of fear, yet hardly that of elation,
held Tim for a moment. So he had crossed the path of the Sky Hawk, the
famous bandit who had been terrorizing the airways of the east. Tim
smiled a little grimly. So far he had always been able to take care of
himself and he had won his first tilt with the sky robber.
Stories about the Sky Hawk had been front page news some months before
when he had staged a number of daring aerial holdups on eastern airways,
but recently he had disappeared, which accounted for the failure to
first connect him with the robbery of the Transcontinental Air Mail.
There were many tales about the Sky Hawk. Some were that he was a
super-flyer, a famous World war ace who had gone wrong; others had him
leading a desperate band of aerial gunmen. One thing Tim knew; if the
Sky Hawk had been piloting the plane which had attacked the mail, he had
a number of accomplices.
The flying reporter walked over to the manager's office and laid the
letter on Hunter's desk.
"I was afraid of something like that," said the airport chief when he
finished reading the note. "The possibility of the Sky Hawk had occurred
to me before but I thought I'd get laughed off the field if I mentioned
it. You'll take good care of yourself, won't you, Tim?"
"Sure, Carl, and while I'm here I want to find out what you know about
this flying circus that blew in a couple of weeks ago. Why didn't they
stop at your field?"
"They landed here first but when they found we charged a percentage on
all passengers carried, they pulled out and rented a pasture on the
other side of town."
"Guess I'll drift over that way," said Tim. "There may be a story."
The flying reporter took the office car he had used to come down to the
field and fifteen minutes later had skirted the edge of the city and
reached a level tract of land where several canvas hangars had been
erected. A sign over the gate announced that the "Ace Company" was ready
for business. Tim turned his car from the main road and into the field.
There was no one on duty at the gate and he started for one of the
hangars where he could hear men at work.
He was about to push aside the canvas flap when a burly mechanic fairly
jumped out of the tent.
"What you doing here?" he bawled.
"Just looking around," replied Tim. "I'm Murphy of the News?"
"Oh, so you're Murphy of the News?" mimicked the mechanic. "Well, we
don't want any flying snoopers sticking their noses in here. Now get out
and stay out!"
Tim appraised the mechanic. He was six feet or better and weighed a good
two hundred pounds. To try to argue with him would be foolhardy and Tim
turned and started for his car.
Halfway to the car he paused for a moment, a peculiar mark on the soft
turf of the field attracting his attention. It was the mark of a
tailskid and from its clean-cut appearance, must have been made within
the last hour!