Ray Folsom strode across the flying field to where the Silver Bird
stood, her powerful motor idling with a regularity of exhaust that was
music in the ears of her pilot. He gazed up at her great spread of
shining surface with something akin to affection; his eyes strayed to
her massive struts and stays, to her capacious cockpit and the housings
of her huge petrol tanks.
He glanced eastward toward where the Atlantic lapped the southern shore
of Long Island and cast a shrewd eye aloft, frowning a little at the
leaden quality of the clouds that hung low over the earth.
A reporter separated himself from the group which stood, conversing, a
short distance away. Sauntering to where Folsom stood, the man asked:
“Do you really think there’s a chance of hopping off in the morning?”
“I’ve given up making prophecies,” Ray smiled. “But the weather reports
certainly indicate favorable conditions for the next seventy-two hours.
And if Mrs. Benham decides to chance it, I’m willing. She’ll be along
any minute now. I think that’s her car turning in at the gate.”
Ray watched the newspapermen as they bolted for the smart motor from
which Mrs. Jarvis Benham was at that moment alighting. A peculiar
feeling—one that had assailed him at intervals for days—swept over him.
A sense of unreality, almost a conviction that this was not Ray Folsom,
who was about to attempt a nonstop flight from New York to Warsaw,
Poland, hoping thereby to hang up two new records—that of nonstop
distance and also compassing the undying fame of Mrs. Benham as the
first woman to fly the Atlantic Ocean.
Long before Lindbergh had accomplished his astounding journey, Ray had
cherished dreams of a transatlantic flight and had suffered bitter
disappointment as he saw the glory of such an achievement dimmed as the
trick was repeated on three subsequent occasions. He felt that his skill
matched that of the others and cursed the fate that kept his hands tied
for lack of the money or the backing which the attempt demanded.
Then had appeared Mrs. Benham—a sort of fairy godmother—to make his
dreams come true. She had acquainted herself with Folsom’s record in the
war and as mail pilot afterward and, undaunted by the scroll of disaster
which the ventures of other feminine aspirants had compiled, had
determined to have a try at what they had missed.
Ray Folsom, quite alone in the world and without ties of blood, had
seized the opportunity with eagerness. It stood for action, adventure at
its best.
And he thanked his stars that Mrs. Jarvis Benham had tired of being
looked at and discussed, merely as the rich widow of a shrewd banker.
Her bid for fame was his chance.
During the period of preparation, Ray and his backer had got on in
perfect harmony, principally because the lady placed the utmost
confidence in her chosen pilot and while certain vital decisions were
technically up to her, she never made them without first ascertaining
Ray’s views in the premises.
Had the latter met Marjorie Benham, casually and in a purely social
atmosphere, he doubtless would have liked her vastly—as a woman. She was
not a great deal older than he. He was twenty-eight and she may have
been thirty-three or thirty-four. She was lively and attractive.
But, as matters were, she did not register with Ray as a woman or a
friend, even. She stood only for the answer to hope, for the long-sought
means to the end he desired. She was the vehicle in which he would
travel to salient accomplishment—or, perchance, destruction.
He watched her now as she crossed the field toward him. She moved with
light, springy step; in her smart leather driving coat, with hat to
match, booted and gloved meticulously, she was a pleasant picture. About
her swarmed reporters and cameramen, but these she courteously motioned
back as she drew close to where her pilot stood.
“What ho?” was her cheery greeting.
“I don’t like to be too hopeful,” he told her, “but in spite of this
dullness, the indications are more than favorable. The wind is veering
to the west. If this holds, the weather will be clear by midnight. The
reports do not show any particular disturbances and it looks to me as if
we shall not do better by waiting. It is, of course, for you to decide.”
“There’s nothing to decide if you feel that way. We’ll go! When do we
hop off?”
“Just about dawn, I should say. The moment there is natural light enough
for the take-off. You’d better give out the glad tidings to the boys
over there; they’re anxious.”
“No. You tell them. Or, better yet, come with me.” She led the way to
where the little knot of scribes waited.
“It’s settled, boys,” Mrs. Benham announced. “We’re going!”
There was a great chorus of “When?”
“Mr. Folsom says at dawn,” she replied.
Ray nodded in confirmation. And for ten minutes faced a crossfire of
questions and a battery of cameras as the gentlemen of the press
scrambled for last-minute stuff. Then Ray moved off to give his final
orders regarding tests and fueling.
* * * * *
The thousands who had flocked to the Long Island field when the news of
the Silver Bird’s proposed start got abroad stood, breathless, as the
giant machine thundered down the runway, lifted ponderously, sagged,
wabbled in apparent hesitation, then, as if with sudden determination
and with motor surlily complaining, drew slowly but steadily aloft.
She had made it, despite a load that had caused head-shakings among
numbers of so-called experts. And now she was a small dot against the
red of a clear winter sunrise. Warsaw, in distant Poland, was her next
port of call!