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.”