THE
                                NON-STOP
                                STOWAWAY



[Illustration]




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                             _THE_ NON-STOP
                                STOWAWAY



                  The Story of a Long Distance Flight

[Illustration]

                       WRITTEN AND ILLUSTRATED BY

                             CLAYTON KNIGHT




                      A Gordon Volland Publication
            _Published by_ The Buzza Company  _Craft Acres_
                      CHICAGO MINNEAPOLIS NEW YORK


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[Illustration]

                            Copyright, 1928
                    The Gordon Volland Publications
                           The Buzza Company
                          Minneapolis, U.S.A.

                         (All rights reserved)
                                  ───
                     Copyright, Great Britain 1928
                                  ───
                           Printed in U.S.A.




                             FIRST PRINTING




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                                PREFACE


_THIS is a story for boys who want to know of the thrills and joys of
Aviation. It is written by a war flyer who was a pilot with a squadron
at the front and who there learned to know how he and other young men
reacted to those dangerous moments when lightning-quick decisions were
necessary._

_He has seen many boys learning to fly, and observed how most of them,
after they had learned, acted in a crisis with the utmost coolness
whether it was the sing of a bullet or the miss of a motor that brought
the warning of danger._

_He knows that those flyers were wrong in their belief during the war
that no flying in peace time could equal the thrill and tingle of the
nervous excitement which they were then experiencing._

_Since the war ended, the design of planes and engines has so far
advanced that distances are being spanned now that they never then
believed possible._

_Nature has put dangers in the paths of our modern flyers, as great or
greater than that of an enemy, for from the moments of the dangerous
take-off with tremendous loads of fuel, until the landing on another
Continent, there can be no relaxation._

_And after watching the planes leave for long ocean flights where no
safe landing can be made for many hours, we have come to realize and
appreciate the strain these pilots are under._

_When several of these bidders for long distance honors have_ _failed to
appear at their announced destination and when, after a frantic search
has been carried on over land and sea, the world has been forced to
admit that no trace—not even a stick of wood or a rag of fabric—can be
found, then it is comforting to think, to hope, that =somewhere=, a safe
landing has been made._

                                        EDITOR.


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                                CONTENTS


                                _EARTH_

              CHAPTER                                   PAGE
                    I THE PLANE TESTED                     9
                   II A NARROW ESCAPE                     23
                  III TROUBLE BREWS                       36
                   IV THE PLANE IS CHRISTENED             45
                    V READY TO HOP                        53

                                 _AIR_

                   VI THE FLIGHT IS ON                    74
                  VII MID-ATLANTIC                        88

                              _AFTERWARDS_

                 VIII CONDITIONS CHANGE                  106
                   IX ANOTHER WORLD                      116
                    X KIWI GETS HIS WINGS                136


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[Illustration]


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[Illustration]




                               CHAPTER I
                            THE PLANE TESTED


SUPPER was over. The man and the boy, although they had finished, seemed
in no hurry to clear the table. Darkness had come, and through the
windows of their little houseboat twinkling lights on the shore half a
mile away were reflected in the quiet waters of the bay. All was still
except for the putt-putt of a motor-boat a long way off. The man in blue
trousers and white shirt with the collar open seemed to be listening for
something. The boy tried hard to get him to talk.

“How long will Dad be, do you suppose?” “Will he come back by train, or
will he fly back?” were some of his questions.

Jack’s reply to them all had been, “We’ll see.”

The boy thought to himself, “What a silly answer,” but that seemed to be
all the silent sailor man would say. He looked little enough like a
sailor now, and not nearly as grand and imposing as when he had met the
boy and his father in New York as they stepped off the train on their
arrival from the West nearly a month ago. At that time he had appeared
in his uniform of blue with gold braid and gold wings. As they had
driven out from the station across the crowded city with its strange
noises and bewildering lights, there had been time to do little more
than notice the slim straightness of him.

His Dad had said to Jack, after the first greetings were over, “Well,
here’s the young fellow I wrote you about. I couldn’t leave him out
West, and besides he will be a great help around the hangar.”

And Jack had replied, as he shook hands, “One more Kiwi for our camp.”

“Right,” said Dad, “but I have had to make him a promise that he won’t
be a Kiwi for long.”

Kiwi was a good enough name in its way, and it did seem to stick to him
wherever Dad went. All his boy friends knew him as Snub but, of course,
the boys knew so little about flying and few of them knew where the name
of Kiwi came from.

Dad had told him that during the war—and Dad had been there, so he
should know—all of the officers who did not fly had come to be known as
Kiwis, named after a bird from Australia or New Zealand “which had wings
but did not fly.”


[Illustration]


So Kiwi he was. There seemed a promise in the name that one of these
days he would learn to fly, for, after all, a Kiwi _did_ have wings. It
was something to start with, and on all the flights he had gone on with
Dad he had kept his eyes open and now felt that he understood all that
had to be done to control the plane.

Often when they had landed after a flight, old war-time friends of Dad’s
would come over with a loud “Well, Skipper, how’s the boy doing? Going
to send him off solo[1] soon?”

Footnote 1:

  After a pupil completes his training with an instructor, who has a
  duplicate set of controls, then he is sent on his first solo flight.
  To fly solo is to fly alone.

And Dad would reply, “Not yet awhile. He has a lot to learn and there’s
plenty of time yet.”

So on that first meeting with Jack, as they rolled across the bridge to
Long Island, Kiwi had wondered if this broad-shouldered sailor-flyer
could be coaxed into teaching him.

Dad and Jack had been too busy talking to notice him. Dad was asking a
thousand questions: how much had they got done on the ship? ... were the
tanks installed yet? ... had the motor been shipped? Dad seemed upset
that more had not been accomplished. “We must get a hustle on if we’re
to get off by the 15th of June,” he had said.

After they had been riding for some time, Kiwi asked:

“Whose house are we going to, Dad?”

Dad turned to Jack, who hurriedly said, “Wait till you see. I have had a
wonderful idea. You remember Old Bert who used to fly the pontoons over
at Rockaway—who would loop any old crate they would let him fly? He has
a shipyard over here and is building houseboats—two sizes—and he thought
we would like to use one of the smaller ones—just one big room and a
little kitchen and a porch. We can moor it where we like, sleep under
the awning on top, and keep the car on the shore near by so that we can
run back and forth to the field. That will only take about twenty
minutes, and it means a good swim in the morning and another after
mucking around the hangars all day. Does the Kiwi swim?”

“Like a fish.”

“Well, that’s settled then.”


[Illustration]


A half hour later they swung down a long hill and into the main street
of a little town, nestling in a deep valley, with a long, lake-like arm
of the Sound coming nearly to the center of the village. They turned off
and wound through a big yard where piles of boards and planks and beams
rose up like top-heavy buildings along the narrow roads. The smell of
cedar and pine hung in the air. They drew up at the wide-open door of a
shed from which came the whine of buzz-saws and the pounding of hammers.
They had hardly stopped when a sunburned man appeared at the door,
evidently expecting them.

“Hello, Bert,” they called.

He rushed over to the car, shook hands with Dad, and there was a great
hubbub of questions and answers. He said their boat was waiting, and it
would be a tip-top place to spend a cool hour or so hearing all the
news.

They were rowed out, and Kiwi spent busy minutes exploring the little
houseboat. He came into the sitting room in time to hear Dad say to
Bert, “As soon as the backers came across with the money, I wired
Burrows to start work on the plane as we had planned it and to rush it
through so that we could make our tests and still get off in June while
the weather was good. Then I turned heaven and earth trying to find
Jack. I had no idea whether he was out East with the fleet or had come
back. When I did locate him, he was able to get leave from the Navy to
make the flight, and hopped a train for Washington and got right to work
on weather maps. He seems to have the navigation part of our trip very
thoroughly in hand. Tomorrow I will get over to the factory and see if
they cannot be hurried with the plane.”

And from then on there had been endless conferences with old friends and
new about equipment to be taken, routes to be followed, wind currents to
dodge. The days had stretched into weeks, and still the plane was on the
ground.

Kiwi had been taken to the factory twice. The plane looked enormous even
in its unfinished state. The body of the machine still lacked its
covering, but in its middle sat an enormous metal tank. Control wires
seemed to run in all directions. The big wing also carried two tanks,
and only the wing-tips were hollow. The engine was still missing. There
were reports that it had been shipped, but for days after that it did
not put in an appearance.


[Illustration]


Nearly always Jack and Kiwi spent the day on the houseboat or driving
over the winding country roads near by. Jack pored over maps and strange
charts. He brought home queer instruments and tested them from the roof
of their houseboat during the moonlight nights. They swam, and once or
twice they went fishing.

At last the day came when the plane was finished, and must be taken up
for its first test flight. Jack and Dad had talked it over the day
before, and it was decided that Jack and Kiwi should stay on the boat
and let Dad do the testing.

“You’ll get plenty of chances, Jack, later on, after I get the feel of
it.”


[Illustration]


So now Jack and Kiwi sat there on the houseboat after supper,
impatiently waiting for the sound of oars. About nine o’clock they heard
a little boat bump against their home, and both rushed out.

It was Dad.

“Jack, she flies—she really does! She lifted off the ground in about two
hundred yards and handled like a dream. Of course, there are some things
to be done, but they can be fixed when we get the plane over at our
field. You and I will go after it tomorrow and start our own work on
it.”

“May I go with you to bring it back, Dad?” Kiwi asked.

“Well, not this time. You’ll have other chances later on.”

The day that Dad and Jack went after the plane dragged endlessly for
Kiwi. He had been driven over to the airdrome early so that he could
welcome them when they arrived. Ordinarily he would have been interested
in the other planes that were busy about the fields. They were
continually hopping off and landing, being fuelled up with gasoline and
going up again. But today it was different. His mind was on Dad and
Jack, and he was constantly on the lookout for their return.

At last, late in the afternoon, the sound of a different motor drew the
attention of the pilots and mechanics to a new plane coming in from the
west. It circled the field several times, and came down to land at the
far end. Wheels and tail skid gently touched, and the plane rolled along
with scarcely a bump. It taxied up to the hangars and was soon
surrounded by an excited group curious to see all the new features of
this bird which was to attempt such a tremendous hop. For the word had
traveled that here was a new challenger for the long distance record.
Here was a machine, equipped with all the latest gadgets,[2] in which
two experienced flyers were planning to leave New York and not touch
their wheels again till they arrived in far off India.

Footnote 2:

  A term used in referring to the instruments on a plane and the levers
  or buttons which control them.

Its single huge wing glistened in the sunlight. The pilot and
navigator’s cockpit, covered with glass, was just in front of this wing
and behind the huge radial engine which was even then slowly and
smoothly turning the propeller. Just behind the wing in the body of the
machine was a tiny window, through which those who were tall enough
could peek in and see a small compartment behind the gas tank. The two
wheels of the undercarriage[3] bore massive balloon tires and were
further protected by large shock absorbers upon which the weight of the
plane rested. The whole plane was painted a brilliant orange.

Footnote 3:

  The undercarriage consists of two wheels and a frame-work which are
  attached to and support the body of the plane.

Switching off the engine, Dad stepped out with a happy smile. “So far,
so good.”


[Illustration]


Then came days of trying and testing. Fortunately they were favored with
splendid weather. For a day or two it rained during the morning, but
they were able to get in one or two flights before dark.

They took the machine up so that Jack could test his wireless. A Lieut.
Connors flew over from Washington with a small, compact set which he
hoped would be better than the one they already had in the machine. On
one of the tests it seemed as though the ultimate in wireless
transmission and reception had been accomplished for an airplane.

The machine went to two thousand feet, the wireless aerial was lowered,
and Kiwi stood beside Lieut. Connors, who was manipulating the receiving
set in the back of a small truck. Jack and Connors tested their signals
both flying away from and toward the receiving set. The dots and dashes
of the code came in equally strong either way.

Kiwi put on the head-phones to listen while Connors clicked out a
message to those soaring above. Jack had taught Kiwi the wireless code
for his name, and soon he was thrilled to hear “H-e-l-l-o K-i-w-i” come
down from the air.

However, there were other days when the set seemed not to work so well,
and it took hours of tinkering before all the troubles were found and
adjusted. The set in the plane was finally moved to a place away from
the main tank and the engine.

Then there was the compass to be corrected. Kiwi had not realized that
correcting a compass was such a long operation, although Dad had told
him that the magnetic compass in an airplane was a very sensitive
instrument. There was much iron and steel in the motor, and there were
many conflicting forces pulling the magnetic needle from its position
toward the north magnetic pole.

To compensate for these forces, small metallic rods had to be added.

So Kiwi followed as the plane was wheeled out onto a cement circular
platform on the ground away from the buildings. Marked on this circular
platform were the north, south, east and west points. Pointing the plane
due north, the bits of iron were placed in position in the compass to
counteract the attraction of the motor and other metal parts. These bits
of metal were about the size of the lead in a pencil, and were of
various lengths. After they had been inserted in holes provided in the
base of the compass, they were secured in place.

As soon as the needle pointed to the north as it should, the plane was
wheeled around till it pointed east and the process was repeated until
the compass had been corrected for each direction.

However, they knew that many times a pen-knife or some such similar
object in the pockets of a pilot would serve to throw the compass off
its proper direction.

Knowing the particularly delicate nature of compasses, the Skipper was
very cautious about putting too much trust in them, and insisted that
their compass be carefully checked.


[Illustration]


They also had an earth inductor compass, which was more reliable, but
which had to be adjusted by an expert from the factory.

The ride home from the field in the cool of the evening was usually
taken up with long discussions about balanced rudders and whether they
did not need more surface on the elevators.

Later on, even the evenings, which Kiwi always looked forward to, were
taken up with test flights. They tried out their navigation lights and
landing by flares.

Many evenings Kiwi would go sound asleep in the back of the car until
the voice of Jack awoke him suggesting that they rush home for their
swim and supper.

During all this time, coax as he would, Kiwi had not been taken on his
promised ride. Dad had always answered in that same hateful formula,
“We’ll see.” Why were grownups so fond of those two words? He promised
himself never to use that expression when he was grown up.

Kiwi had made many friends around the field—the men in greasy overalls
who tinkered with the engines, Old Bill who kept the lunch stand at the
end of the field and who had made his name famous for having packed the
sandwiches for several earlier cross-Atlantic flights. But there was a
scarcity of boys of his own age. There were plenty who were older and
who seemed to be able to convince the instructors on the field that they
could learn to fly.

Kiwi felt a lack of the proper arguments to use. He was sure he could
fly if they would give him a chance. But as soon as he brought up the
subject, they insisted on talking down to him as if he were a child.

Kiwi felt that it was Old Bill at the lunch wagon who eventually got him
his first ride in the new plane. His father and Jack had dashed down for
a hurried lunch, and Old Bill said to Kiwi, “Well, how does she handle?”
Kiwi had blushed to the roots of his hair and admitted that he did not
know. Whereupon Old Bill had turned to his Dad and said, “What, you
haven’t taken this boy up yet?” And his father had answered, “He’ll get
his ride—perhaps tomorrow.”

That night, after considerable pestering, his father gave him a definite
promise that if the next day were fine he’d get that first ride.


[Illustration:

  _Old Bill_
]


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[Illustration]


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[Illustration]




                               CHAPTER II
                            A NARROW ESCAPE


IN the morning, as Kiwi and the two men rowed away from the little
houseboat, clouds hung low over the bay, the wind whipped up tiny
whitecaps, and in the bow of the boat where Kiwi sat he felt the
wavelets going slap-slap as they drew toward the shore. A sand bank
showed yellow against the dark gray of the sky. Jack had received
weather reports during the night from the wireless he had installed on
their floating home and, with a quick look around, dismissed the
threatening appearance of things with a curt, “This will all clear away
by noon, I’m sure.”

Kiwi’s spirits rose, for it had begun to look as though his flight might
be postponed again.

On the ride over to the field in the car, Jack said:

“Well, Skipper, do we try out your comic stream-lining on the wheels
today? Not many pilots have any faith in them. I cannot see myself where
they will add much to our speed.”

“Well,” replied the Skipper, “I’ll admit that they look like a pair of
tin pants, but if they add even five miles an hour to the speed of our
bus, that amount, spread over seventy hours, will mean a lot for our
chances of arriving in India. At any rate, we’ll give them a try today
if those mechanics have managed to get them installed.”

By the time they drew up in front of the hangar the weather looked more
threatening. There was little activity outside the long row of hangars
that lined the field. Old Bill had waved from the little window of his
restaurant as they passed. Only one machine was standing on the line,
and the mechanics were half-heartedly turning the propeller over.

At their own hangar the two smudgy mechanics were still busy with the
stream-lining. There seemed little chance that the plane would be ready
much before noon.

Kiwi wandered up the line of hangars to see what other excitement he
could find. He liked to listen to the flying talk that was practically
the only topic of conversation around the field. He had learned to
respect those rather dingy buildings, some of which were now in a sad
state of disrepair.

They had served other purposes during the war. Dad had even pointed out
the deserted and dilapidated buildings that had been used for barracks,
where he had eaten and slept before being sent overseas. He had also
pointed out to Kiwi the building they had used as a kitchen, where he
had washed dishes and peeled potatoes for twelve hours at a stretch as a
punishment for being caught in his bed after the whistle for reveille
had blown.

There was little now to make them glamorous—no uniforms to be seen, no
sound of bugles, no high hopes for adventurous times across the seas. In
fact, they seemed to Kiwi a bit too spooky even in daylight. He seldom
stayed long in any one of them. Dad had given him the feeling that they
were crowded with the unseen presence of rollicking young fellows who
had once stayed there, who had gone away, and had never returned. They
had learned to fly, had mounted into the high heavens, had come to know
a world apart—a world of mountainous clouds, with the ground far below
blue-gray in the early morning—a silent kingdom of its own, its silence
sometimes shattered by the rattle of machine-guns and the bursts of
anti-aircraft shells.

Just before noon, as the sky seemed to lighten somewhat, Kiwi noticed
their machine being wheeled from the hangar with its new stream-lining
in place.


[Illustration]


He hurried back and was told that they would soon start. As chocks[4]
were put under the wheels, he climbed up into the cockpit beside his
Dad. It was a tiny place with just enough room for two men, crowded with
instruments and wheels. Even the seat was a gasoline tank. For gasoline
was to be the life of their flight, and every possible ounce had to be
carried when the real hop-off came. During most of the tests the tanks
were only partly filled.

Footnote 4:

  Chocks are triangular blocks of wood placed in front of the two wheels
  of the undercarriage to prevent the plane from beginning to roll after
  the propeller has been started.

He watched Dad as he adjusted the levers, and as the mechanic said,
“Switch off! Suck in!” Dad leaned out and repeated it after him. The
mechanic turned the propeller over several times to get a rich mixture
in each cylinder. Then as the mechanic called out “Contact!” Dad threw
over his switches, and after a couple of false starts the engine roared
into life.

For a few moments, as it warmed up, Dad watched the dial which told the
number of revolutions his engine was making. Then, as he felt that all
was ready, he opened wide the throttle and the whole plane quivered with
the roar of the engine. As soon as his instruments showed him that the
engine was developing its full power, he throttled back and motioned to
Jack to hop in.

As Jack started to do so, he said, “We haven’t the wireless aerial.
Connors is splicing on a new piece.”

“Never mind,” Dad replied, “we won’t need it this time.”

Dad’s invitation to Jack meant that there would be no room in front for
Kiwi. But Dad said, “Kiwi, you slip over the tank and ride in the
compartment in the back.”

There was scarcely room for him to squeeze through in the space between
the top of the tank and the under side of the wing.

The chocks were withdrawn, and they went bumping out across the field to
the far side and turned into the wind. Then, as the engine opened up,
Kiwi felt the tail lift, they went rolling across the ground and, with a
last gentle bump, were in the air.


[Illustration]


Kiwi looked out to see the ground apparently falling away from him, and
the hangars, houses and fields took on a toy-like appearance. He was now
accustomed to this sensation, but he would always remember his first
flight and how odd it had seemed to have the ground slip away from
beneath him in this strange manner. He remembered the queer feeling he
had had when they made their first turn. It seemed as though they were
perfectly stationary, and that the whole earth had suddenly started to
tilt up until it stood on edge.

Kiwi remembered, too, his first experience in clouds. The clouds were
not very high, and he had motioned to Dad to go up through them. As they
started up they were soon surrounded by a fog so dense that even the
wing-tips faded from sight. They had flown on for what seemed to him an
endless time, when Dad shook his head, motioned that the clouds were too
thick, and started down.

Wires screamed with the vibration, and Kiwi kept a sharp lookout over
the side for the first appearance of the ground. Surely they must see it
soon! Then, with a sudden start, he looked over his shoulder to find the
earth apparently above him. It took him some seconds to convince himself
that this was really the ground in such an unusual place. There above
him was this uncanny earth, with the trees lining the tiny roads, half
hiding the toy-like houses.

Dad had afterwards explained to him that in trying to get up through the
clouds he had lost all sense of direction; that when he had shut off his
engine and pointed the plane to what he thought was down, they had
fallen sideways rather than straight down, which accounted for the earth
appearing in this unexpected quarter.

However, on this first flight in the new machine, he had no such
experience; for they had taken off in a straight line and climbed to
nearly a thousand feet before any turn was made. Also, being completely
inclosed in his little compartment, he felt much more secure. He peered
out of the windows, first on one side and then on the other. As they
came back over the field, he looked down to see several figures rushing
about and another plane taking off.

Dad headed out toward the ocean. It was Kiwi’s first view of the
Atlantic, which extended far off toward the misty horizon, dotted here
and there with busy ships going about their errands. A long trail of
smoke marked a big liner heading for the port of New York. Its decks and
life-boats showed dazzling white against the dark blue of the water.

Then Dad turned and they headed back toward the field. Suddenly, almost
from nowhere, there appeared to Kiwi a plane with silver wings and blue
body—the plane that he had noticed taking off a short time before. It
came close and tried to fly level with them. Kiwi, fascinated, watched
the pilot as he waved to them. He continued to wave, and then pointed to
the side of his machine.

Kiwi noticed then in large white chalked letters the words, YOUR RIGHT
WHEEL GONE.

The pilot of this machine seemed unable to catch up with them and so
attract Dad’s and Jack’s attention.


[Illustration]


As they roared along, Kiwi crossed over to the right side, looked out of
his little window, and there hanging down useless was the stream-lining
and no sign of the wheel.

His first thought was, “Now Dad will shew them what it means to be a
good pilot.” Then it crossed his mind, “Perhaps Dad doesn’t know it’s
gone.”

He scrambled up onto the huge tank and wormed his way toward the front.
Jack saw him coming and motioned him back. The roar of the motor drowned
out Kiwi’s voice as he tried to tell them what had happened. But Jack
did finally understand as Kiwi pointed frantically back toward the other
plane still trying to overtake them.

Dad gave a startled glance toward the plane and read the message,

YOUR RIGHT WHEEL GONE.

He motioned to Jack to open his cockpit window and verify their
predicament. There was a nodding of heads, showing that both understood.

When they got back to the field they flew low, while Dad waved his arm
to let those on the ground know that they were aware of their plight.
The news of their mishap had evidently traveled, for a crowd was
gathering and more and more cars were arriving.

They made no attempt to land for they could see that another plane was
about to take-off, and a mechanic was even then chalking a new message
to them.

They circled around until this plane drew alongside, and against its
dark background they read a longer message:

LAND AT MITCHEL. AMBULANCE THERE. NO CROWDS.

Dad waved his arm to let them know he understood. Then he drew over
toward the other field and circled around for several minutes, which
came to seem like hours. They could see the activity on the ground as
every preparation was made to take care of the inevitable crash.

To land a heavy plane such as theirs on one wheel was a thing that had
been seldom, if ever, tried before. Kiwi had heard stories of pilots who
had landed not knowing one wheel was off, and he knew that the
consequences were often very serious. Planes turned over so quickly once
the axle caught and dug into the ground. But he also knew that warned as
they had been of the loss of their wheel, there was a good chance that
Dad would pull them through.


[Illustration]


He thought of the hours of work that had been spent on this machine and
of the high hopes they had that it would carry Dad and Jack thousands of
miles across land and water, and he realized how dashed their hopes
would be if there were irreparable damage.

Jack’s head appeared above the tank. He motioned Kiwi forward, and then
explained to him by gestures how he must brace himself when the final
moments of landing came.

Kiwi nodded and felt that here was his chance to show Dad and Jack that
he had the necessary courage. He knew that he would prove equal to the
test.


[Illustration]


As he dropped back into his compartment, he looked down on the field. A
group of men had marked a cross with wide strips of cloth in the middle
of the field, showing the best place to land. In front of the Operations
Office was a little group of people beside the ambulance, with a red
cross on its side. As he looked farther along, he saw the red and the
polished nickel of a fire truck. Men were hurrying to different parts of
the field with what he knew to be fire-extinguishers.


[Illustration]


The stage was set for the try.

As they circled around, heading into the wind, he felt Dad throttle back
the engine and the long, slow glide to the field was started.

The spectators on the ground were no more tense than Kiwi, through the
long seconds of this dive to uncertainty.

The silence, after the engine had been throttled down, was broken only
by the rush of the wind through the struts. He braced himself. He felt
Dad tip the plane over so that the left wheel would touch first. As the
plane lost momentum, the other axle dropped, caught in the ground, and
with a terrific crunching of metal they spun around and came to a stop.

He heard cheers and voices and saw Dad’s scared face come through the
trap door in the bottom.

“Are you all right, Kiwi?”

Dad lifted him down with shaking arms, and they were at once surrounded
by a group of people slapping Dad on the back and telling him what a
wonderful job he had done.

They looked the precious plane over. Some damage had been done, but
nothing that could not be fixed within a few days. One of the wing-tips
had been slightly torn and they would need a new propeller.

It seemed no time at all until camera men appeared, and nothing would do
but that Dad must pose with Kiwi on his shoulder and Jack smiling by his
side.

Within a few minutes planes from the other field began arriving. The
pilots were amazed to find all three unhurt, and were loud in their
praise of the marvelous way in which Dad had made the landing. He stood
there, cool and collected, smoking a cigarette, the color now back in
his tanned cheeks, his wavy chestnut hair very much awry as he took off
his helmet and goggles. There was nothing to show of the tense strain he
had been under except a slightly drawn look about his gray eyes. He was
shorter and less striking in appearance than Jack, but the crowd of
pilots singled him out and gave him that praise which only one pilot can
give to another.

They made a fuss over Kiwi, too, and he had the feeling that he had been
weighed and not found wanting—that in this emergency he had kept his
head and done the right thing.

For the first time Dad seemed to notice Kiwi’s nondescript clothes as
the photographers were snapping pictures. True, very little attention
had been paid to what he wore. There had seemed to be so many other more
important things to be looked after. But as they were riding back to
their old hangar, Dad said, “Kiwi, I think tomorrow would be a good time
for you and me to make a trip into town and we will get you a new
outfit. If you _will_ insist upon getting your pictures in the papers,
the folks back home will want to see you in the sort of clothes a young
aviator should wear.”

“Will it be a uniform, Dad, like yours?” Kiwi had asked.

“Absolutely, if that’s what you want,” had been Dad’s promise.


------------------------------------------------------------------------


[Illustration]




                              CHAPTER III
                             TROUBLE BREWS


THEY awoke the next morning to find that their adventure of the day
before had made them famous. The newspapers all told of the fight for
life over the flying fields of Long Island. They told of the real
courage of the two men and the boy when an unforeseen mishap had so
nearly ruined their plane and their chances for a long distance record.

A reporter from one of the newspapers had questioned the mechanics in
charge of the plane, and hinted that one of them had been careless in
reassembling the undercarriage after the new stream-lining had been put
in place. This was most difficult to prove. Certainly Jack and the
Skipper did their best to decide from an inspection of the wreckage of
the broken axle what the trouble had been.

The Skipper had great confidence in the two mechanics, Cosgrave and
Billings, who were looking after the plane, and felt quite sure of their
loyalty. Jack was not so sure. He had taken a dislike to Cosgrave, and
several times had voiced his distrust to the Skipper.

[Illustration:

  _Billings_
]

About Billings, who was an English engine expert, there could be no
possible doubt. He had been the Skipper’s engine sergeant in France.
There was nothing particularly handsome about him. He was rugged,
square, had large ears and a shock of black hair hanging in his eyes. He
was always covered with grease, and grit was ground into his hands. His
finger-nails were always outlined in black. He was bandy-legged, and
even in an army uniform he looked anything but soldier-like.

After the war Billings had gone back to England and had tried to keep
busy, but times were hard and there was an over-supply of skilled
mechanics. He had drifted over to America, and had been working for
several years at the factory that had built the engine for the Skipper’s
plane.

When the factory head had received the order for a specially built
engine for a particularly long non-stop flight, he had sent for Billings
and told him that here was an engine that must be watched through all
its construction, from the tiniest nut and bolt, to the moment of its
great trial. Nothing must be overlooked. Everything must be tested and
re-tested.

“It will make or break our reputation, for I have every confidence in
Captain McBride who is going to make the try,” he said.

Billings’ face lighted up.

“That wouldn’t be Skipper McBride—er—Captain Malcolm McBride—would it,
sir?”

“Yes, that’s the man. A pilot with plenty of experience and the habit of
being lucky.”

“Why, sir, I was with him in France for a year. He’ll do it, and there’s
nobody would like to help him more than me. Is he here? Could I see
him?”

“No, but if you want to write him, here’s his address. He hasn’t come
East yet.”

So in the Skipper’s mail one morning a few days later was a letter from
Billings:

    “Capt. Malcolm McBride, D.F.C.,

    Dear Sir:

    I take my pen in hand to tell you that this is your old Sergeant
    Billings of No. 206 Squadron. You will remember me from the old
    days in France, especially the time you took me up for a ride
    and threw the old Bristol fighter about until I lost my false
    teeth, and had to get leave to go back to London to get a new
    set fitted.

    I am working now for the company that is building your engine,
    and you can rest assured that I will watch it, Captain, until it
    is ready for delivery. What I was wondering was, wouldn’t you be
    needing some one to look after it until your hop-off? I would
    like nothing better than that job. I think I could get a leave
    to help you if you would write to Mr. Block.

    Hoping this finds you “in the pink” as it leaves me,

                                            Yours respectfully,

                                  C. M. BILLINGS. _Ex-Sergeant R. A.
    F._”

To say that the Skipper was pleased, is putting it much too mildly. Of
course he remembered Billings. Billings had been with his squadron
during all his flying days in France. Billings had been the last man he
had seen as he left the ground each day, and the first man to greet him
as he landed and taxied up to an open space in front of the old Squadron
hangars.

“Engine all right, sir?” Billings would ask, even before the Skipper had
swung his cramped legs out of the plane.

Billings’ personal interest in those engines had been almost motherly.
Once, returning from a trip to the “lines,” the Skipper had been caught
in an almost tropical downpour of rain, which made it necessary for him
to land and spend the night at an airdrome about thirty miles away from
his own. When he did get back to his own field, Billings had seemed
about to take the whole engine apart just to make sure that it had not
been mistreated while away.

Here, surely, was the sort of loyalty that would be needed in their new
adventure. Therefore the Skipper lost no time in wiring East to make
sure that Billings would come with the engine and help them off to their
goal.

Of Cosgrave, both Jack and the Skipper knew very little. He had been
recommended by the people who had built the plane, and had seemed to go
about his work willingly and to do it well. He had apparently obeyed all
their orders, and was ready to help at all times. He had even offered to
bring over a cot and sleep in the hangar so as to “keep an eye on the
plane.” This he had done, and was always there early and late.

Jack had said to the Skipper one night, “I like Cosgrave all right, but
I can’t say as much for some of his friends.”

The Skipper had thought little about this until the accident with the
wheel. Then he began to wonder if Cosgrave were on the level or if there
were something underhanded going on. The whole thing might bear a little
watching. But surely no one could have any object in stopping their
flight. True, there were others who would like to get the prize money
and the prestige it would bring.

Another group of men with a plane almost as good as the Skipper’s were
at a nearby field, and were getting a good deal of publicity. Every day
the papers carried new stories about their plane. However, the gossip
heard around the hangars told of quarrels and dissensions between the
pilots and their powerful backers. Lawyers had been busy drawing up
contracts and counter-contracts. It seemed hardly possible to the
Skipper that their activities would carry them so far as definitely to
try to interfere with him and Jack.

He dismissed the whole thing from his mind, and with his usual energy
began to put the plane into shape with as little delay as possible. His
confidence in his stream-lining idea for the wheels was unshaken.
However, the few minutes they had been in the air had given them no
check on their speed.

Repairs of a temporary nature had to be made quickly at the army field.
A new propeller was ordered.

During the two days these repairs were going on, Kiwi had a chance to
see and explore this new field. All during the day army planes fully
equipped with guns were taking off and landing and practising close V
formations over the field. The pilots’ uniforms with their silver wings
were a welcome change from the golf clothes that most of the men at the
other field wore.

True to his promise, the Skipper took Kiwi into New York, where they
went to a huge store on Madison Avenue and ordered a tunic and breeches
to be made for him. Kiwi secretly hoped that Dad would buy him some
field boots such as he wore, but Dad seemed to think that leather
puttees would do as well. The salesman in the store had recognized the
pair from their newspaper photographs, and they were the center of
attraction during their stay.

The man who took Kiwi’s measure remarked about his straightness and his
sturdy shoulders. He said it would take a week for the uniform to be
finished, and Kiwi could hardly wait to see it.

However, the days passed. The new propeller was fitted. The plane was
flown back to the old hangar and the tests went on.

It was finally established that the Skipper had been right—the new
stream-lining had increased the speed of the plane by exactly eight
miles an hour. There could be no question that it was an advantage.

Through one of Jack’s friends in the Navy, they met a chemist who was
developing a new fuel, lighter in weight than gasoline and nearly twice
as powerful. He was anxious for them to try it out on their flight to
India. Their experiments with it had led the Skipper and Jack to believe
that it was a real discovery, and they decided to test it out on a long
flight before the big hop.

The tanks were nearly filled with the new fuel, and early one morning
they took off for Washington. It was to be their longest test and would
give them a good check on their speed and fuel consumption.

Kiwi was not to go along, but Bert had promised to take him on a sailing
picnic that day. Several times Kiwi had seen Bert in his sailboat, with
a crowd aboard, sail off up the bay, and he was torn between the desire
to go with Bert and the feeling that he did not want to miss a day at
the flying field.

Dad and Jack had been gone about half an hour when Bert sailed alongside
the houseboat and Kiwi hopped aboard. They spent a glorious day along
the sunlit shore of the Sound, and at noon put in to Mattituck where
they built a fire on the beach and had their lunch. They roasted
potatoes, fried some bacon, and romped with a friendly dog who came to
visit them. The shore was wide and sandy, and about an hour after lunch
they had a swim in the cool waters of the Sound.

On the trip back the wind died down, and they lay becalmed for nearly an
hour. Then a light wind sprang up from another quarter. The sun sank
lower in the west. They were still some miles from home. Bert finally
gave up trying to sail, started the auxiliary engine, and they slowly
chugged up the bay.

It was dark as they drew abreast the houseboat and there were no lights
showing. Bert wrote a note and left it for the Skipper, and carried Kiwi
off to his own home for dinner.


[Illustration]


The day in the open had made him ravenously hungry, and the meal, served
in the wide, cool dining room facing the shore, was doubly welcome for
its touch of home.

Bert’s wife, who was waiting as they drew up to the little dock, had
embraced Kiwi with a great squeeze as Bert called out, “How about some
food for that boy?” She had had only fleeting glimpses of Kiwi since the
day of his arrival. He had seemed so busy with the men folks. However,
she must have had some experience with small boys, for several times
pies, cakes, and doughnuts had been sent out to him. He liked her cheery
bustling about the dining room. It called to mind his mother who seemed
to be somewhere in his shadowy past. He had missed her terribly after
she had gone, and tonight, seeing Bert’s wife so busy about the house,
brought it all back to him.

Dinner over, they had gone out on the wide veranda in time to see a new
moon climb up from the hills.

Bert had telephoned the field, and came back with the report that Dad’s
plane had circled Washington, had wirelessed that all was well, and had
started for Norfolk early in the afternoon.

The minutes dragged. More calls to the field brought them little
comfort. The plane had been seen over Cape May, but no wireless call had
come from it.

About nine-thirty Kiwi was packed off to bed, and as he lay there he
heard Bert at the phone still calling the flying field.

Tucked into this strange bed in a spare room at the head of the stairs,
he lay thinking about the plane. The cool white sheets, the chintz
curtains at the window, the little knick-knacks on the dresser were
unaccustomed and almost forgotten niceties. The wind and the sun during
the day had made him drowsy, but he could not sleep for wondering what
was happening to Dad and Jack.

It was so calm and peaceful there in the little room. The light breeze
that stirred the window curtains only helped to emphasize this calm.
Still, somewhere out along the coast, perhaps Dad and Jack were in
trouble.

He tried to picture some adventure that might have befallen them. If
they had had to land in the water, he remembered that they had no boat.
The collapsible rubber one which they were to take on their trip across
the ocean had not yet arrived. If they did have to land, he hoped that
it might be near some farmhouse which would give them shelter for the
night.

As he fell asleep, Bert’s voice came drifting up the stairs, repeating
the words that had just come over the telephone, “No news.”


[Illustration]


------------------------------------------------------------------------


[Illustration]




                               CHAPTER IV
                        THE PLANE IS CHRISTENED


KIWI awoke with a dread feeling that something was wrong. It was
daybreak—light was just beginning to come in the window. Then he
remembered that Dad and Jack had not come back in the plane.

Hurriedly dressing, he tiptoed down the stairs, opened the door onto the
porch, and without disturbing anyone made his way down the path. The
robins and the grackles were making a great racket in an old pine tree
near a little lake in Bert’s yard.

He followed the shore, hurried on through the lumber yard, and out to
the road. The way to the field was by this time well known to him and he
started off at a fast clip. He felt that he must get over to the field
and get some news of Dad.

There were few people on the road, and he had gone perhaps half a mile
before anyone overtook him. The first car whizzed by, but another,
coming along soon after, pulled up beside him and the man leaned out and
called:

“Want a ride, Bub? How far are you going?”

Kiwi was not sure that he ought to get into this stranger’s car; but the
man, dressed in dark clothes, a blue shirt and a cap with a shiny peak,
seemed thoroughly friendly. So he hopped in. The car started off with a
clatter and rattle as Kiwi said that he was going over to the flying
field.

“That’s right on my way,” the man said. “I’m just going over to take out
the 4:59.”


[Illustration]


“Are you a flyer?” Kiwi asked.

“Well, not exactly. As a matter of fact I’m a fireman on the Long Island
railroad. But I see lots of these flyers as my train passes by the
field. One of these days I’m going to get one of them to take me up.”

“I’ve been up lots of times,” Kiwi replied, proudly.

They chattered on, and Kiwi told the man who he was and how his father
was planning a non-stop flight to India.

The fireman said, a little incredulously, “Are you going, too?”

Kiwi had to admit, rather shamefacedly, that he wasn’t—at least Dad had
said he wasn’t—“But I’d like to, and I’ve heard that India is a very
nice place. Dad says they have elephants there the same as they have in
the circus, except they are everywhere. The people wear turbans and
bright-colored clothes, and even the men wear earrings.”

The fireman looked a bit skeptical as to that. He had seen such things
at the movies, but really did not believe they were true.

As they turned the corner into the road that led past the field, he
stopped and let Kiwi out. As Kiwi thanked him for the ride, he said,
“Tell your Dad I’m coming over for a ride one of these days.”

“I don’t think he’ll take you,” Kiwi answered. “You have to tease him a
lot for rides.”

As the car started away, it came over Kiwi that he did not know where
Dad was just then. He might be down, almost anywhere along the coast.

There seemed to be no one at the field. He followed the road down toward
their hangar, clambered through the fence, and came up through the tall
grass at the back.

He heard voices inside the hangar and stopped. It might be Dad. He heard
Cosgrave saying something, and then a strange voice broke in, “But you
are going it too fast, old fellow. They’ll catch on to you. Wait till
just before they hop. That’s time enough.”

This sounded funny to Kiwi, and he wondered who could be talking to
Cosgrave in this manner. He hurried around to the front, opened the
little door and went into the empty hangar, making his way to the room
partitioned off at the back. The wind carried the small front door to
with a bang, and the voices he had heard suddenly ceased. As he opened
the inner door, Cosgrave was just standing up and starting for it. Kiwi
looked at the other man, but it was no one he had seen before. He was
neatly dressed and had a tiny black mustache.

Cosgrave said, in a strange voice, “Oh, hello, Kiwi. What are you doing
around here so early?”

“I came over to find out what had happened to Dad.”

“Oh, he’s all right. We got a message during the night that he had
landed near Trenton. Just some little vibration trouble with the engine,
which they’ll fix up first thing this morning and probably be back here
by noon.”

After a long pause the stranger lit a cigarette and said to Cosgrave,
“Well, I’ll be running along. You phone me later, will you?” And with a
backward glance at Kiwi, he walked out.

About two o’clock that afternoon the plane returned.

Dad said the plane had performed wonderfully until after they left
Washington. They had been able to form a good idea of its speed and its
new fuel consumption. They were flying a compass course over the clouds
off Norfolk when a slight vibration had started in the engine. Since it
had not been bad enough to worry them, they had kept on. However, as
they had continued north, near Cape May, it had grown worse, and
although it was dark when they reached Trenton, they decided to risk a
landing at a strange field rather than strain the engine-bearers. They
tried for some time to locate the airdrome, and finally concluded that
they had better try to land on a large, flat field some miles out from
the town. With the aid of one of their parachute flares, which they
dropped, they had landed with little difficulty.

With flashlights they were able to locate the trouble. Two bolts,
holding the engine to its frame, had become loosened and the cotter-pins
from both were missing.

They had attracted the attention of a passing motorist who took Jack to
a telephone, while Dad stayed with the plane. Jack had tried, without
much success, to telephone through to Bert and to the field, and finally
had sent telegrams instead. They tied the wing-tips of the plane to some
fence posts, and a State policeman offered to watch it till morning. The
policeman also directed them to a place where they spent the night.

In the morning, it was the work of but a few minutes to put the plane
into good shape, and with a parting wave to the policeman and a few
people who had gathered to see them take-off, they left. Without further
difficulty they had landed at their own field.

This long test had reassured the Skipper and Jack on many points, and
there seemed little more to do to the plane. The letters and the numbers
of their license, NX-953, had been painted on the top of the right-hand
and on the bottom of the left-hand wing and on the tail. The man who had
done this had asked about a name, but Jack and the Skipper had been
unable to agree on one.

The backers of the flight, having had word that the plane was nearly
ready for the take-off, wrote the Skipper that they would be at the
field by the end of the week. One of them suggested in the letter that
there should be a formal christening. It would help the publicity. The
fact that he had a very attractive daughter who photographed well may
have put the idea into his head.

Kiwi’s excitement ran high at all these new preparations. His new
uniform had been delivered, and he had strutted about the houseboat with
it on. Both Dad and Jack were immensely pleased at his new appearance,
and Jack promised to go with him to the barber for a last trimming up.

The makers of Kiwi’s uniform had added a touch of their own, and had
sewed on a small pair of embroidered wings. But on this point Dad was
firm. The wings could not be worn. “For,” he said, “you are not a pilot,
Kiwi, and until you have learned to fly, no wings.”

This started Kiwi off anew on his demands to be taught to fly. He had
worked on Jack on every possible occasion to get a promise of
instruction from him. But so far no definite promise had been made.
Jack, at odd times, had been teaching him the wireless code. By now Kiwi
knew it by heart, and every evening, when possible, Jack would get him
to learn the sing of the letters. Tacked over Kiwi’s bed was this card
with the dots and the dashes and the letters they stood for:


[Illustration]

                       Continental Wireless Code
                  _For Use of Planes and Ships at Sea_

    A • —
    B — •••
    C — • — •
    D — ••
    E •
    F •• — •
    G — — •
    H ••••
    I ••
    J • — — —
    K — • —
    L • — ••
    M — —
    N — •
    O — — —
    P • — — •
    Q — — • —
    R • — •
    S •••
    T —
    U •• —
    V ••• —
    W • — —
    X — •• —
    Y — • — —
    Z — — ••
    , • — • — • —
    . •• •• ••
    ? •• — — ••
    1 • — — — — ••
    2 •• — — —
    3 ••• — —
    4 •••• —
    5 •••••
    6 — ••••
    7 — — •••
    8 — — — ••
    9 — — — — •
    0 — — — — —


[Illustration]


On Saturday afternoon, the party arrived with the attractive daughter,
her mother, and a bottle of what they hoped was pre-war champagne. The
field was crowded. A small platform had been built and the machine
wheeled up to it so that the attractive daughter could just reach the
big propeller. Both Billings and Cosgrave had spent the whole morning
cleaning and polishing the plane until it shone. Jack, the Skipper and
Kiwi were all in their uniforms. As they stood on the little platform in
the bright sun, to the tune of clicking movie cameras, the bottle of
champagne was brought down smartly on the metal propeller, and the young
girl said, in a clear voice:

“I christen thee ‘Dauntless’, and wish thee all the luck in the world
for thy big adventure.”

The crowd cheered, and the golden liquid foamed and bubbled as it ran
down the long blade of the propeller. Everyone was happy. Any doubt of
their success seemed out of place on this bright, sunny afternoon. Dad
and Jack’s confidence in their machine and in themselves radiated from
them.


------------------------------------------------------------------------


[Illustration]




                               CHAPTER V
                              READY TO HOP


THE christening was over, and the publicity that it brought had added
interest to their flight. In the days before the christening they had
scarcely ever been bothered by crowds around the hangar.

Now things were changed. Whenever the plane was inside the hangar, the
doors had to be kept closed, or ropes stretched, to keep the idle
curious from interfering with the work in hand. Rumors were continually
being broadcast that a surprise take-off was imminent, which brought
throngs to the field at all hours of the day and night.

Reporters on special assignments were always bothering the Skipper and
Jack with questions about the performance of the plane, how long they
expected it would take them to get to India, and about incidents in
their lives that the reporters thought would be of interest to the
public.

From one source or another they found out about the Skipper’s war
record—how he had gone to a ground school in this country, had been sent
to England to finish his flying training, and, this completed, had
waited in England for weeks for an assignment to an American Squadron;
how the shortage of planes on the American front had prevented this; how
the British, who had spent time and money in training American pilots,
found themselves with plenty of planes and a scant supply of their own
men to fly them; how the British government had finally asked and
received permission from the American authorities to send some of these
American pilots to France to work with the British flying corps; how the
Skipper had gone out under this arrangement and fought with great
distinction with his British comrades.


[Illustration]


The newspaper men had also looked up stories about the Skipper that had
been printed in his home papers during the war. These they
reprinted—stories of the miraculous way in which he had come through
months of hard flying with scarcely a scratch; of his spending a couple
of weeks at one of the base hospitals in France, recovering from a
slight wound made by a machine-gun bullet as he was diving on a balloon
near Armentieres, and then, without waiting for the usual sick leave, of
his hurrying back to his squadron and plunging once more into the daily
round of patrols, shooting down two enemy planes the very day of his
return.


[Illustration]


During one fight, when he was within a hair’s breadth of adding one more
enemy machine to his score, his engine had stopped in the midst of a
zoom, and the enemy, realizing he was getting the worst of it, had
streaked for home, leaving the Skipper several miles behind the enemy
lines with just enough altitude to glide down to No Man’s Land, where he
had scrambled from his machine into a shell hole. There he crouched
while the enemy artillery battered his plane to pieces with shell fire.
Getting his direction, in the failing light, from the line of enemy
balloons, he had made his way, as soon as darkness came, to his own
lines.

Stumbling across the torn and broken country, he had come across a
British Tommy badly wounded, and had dragged him to safety. For this and
other of his exploits he had been awarded the Distinguished Flying
Cross, one of the highest British decorations given to airmen.

Then, when the Skipper’s leave to England had come around, after six
months at the front, he, with several others, had been summoned to
Buckingham Palace to be decorated by the King. He had nervously awaited
his turn at the end of a long red carpet which led to the platform where
the King stood. He had walked forward and saluted, more frightened than
he had ever been in the midst of a scrap in the air. The King had pinned
on the cross, had asked him one or two questions about his flying, had
thanked him for his splendid services as an American with the British
army, and before he knew it the interview was over and he was on his way
out.


[Illustration:

  DISTINGUISHED
  FLYING CROSS
]


The newspapers printed all this, and drew on their imagination for a
great deal more.

They gave a full description of Jack’s training and work with the Navy
and his flying ability. But most of all, they devoted many paragraphs to
his development of a device which was a really practical drift
indicator. This ingenious instrument, upon which they were going to rely
during their long hop, seemed to solve the problem of correcting their
drift, even in clouds and fog. Heretofore, pilots attempting to navigate
over long distances of fog-obscured areas had found themselves unable to
tell whether or not the wind was carrying them sideways off their
course.

The story of Kiwi’s life and his adventures also became public property.

Billings was not much help to reporters. Naturally taciturn, he became
even more so with newspaper men, and was almost surly in his refusal to
help them out with their stories.

Cosgrave, however, liked the chance to talk, and did so on every
occasion. The Skipper finally warned him he had better say little or
nothing at all, and that if there were any information the papers should
have, he, the Skipper, would give it.

One evening the Skipper had taken Billings back to the houseboat with
him, and during supper he tried to draw him out about Cosgrave and what
he, Billings, thought of him.

During the conversation, Kiwi suddenly remembered the things he had
overheard, on the morning that Dad and Jack were at Trenton, in the back
room of the hangar. He told Dad about it.

Dad frowned, and for several minutes seemed deep in thought. Then he
said, “Billings, I don’t want to be unfair to Cosgrave—he may be all
right. We have very little proof that he isn’t. But I am going to ask
you to keep an eye on him. Watch his work on the plane, and if you see
the slightest thing that looks suspicious, I want you to come and tell
me.”

Billings had promised to do this, and the Skipper tried to dismiss from
his mind the thought that there might be forces working against them
other than the natural ones which they expected to have to contend with.

The Skipper and Jack pushed ahead with their preparations. Their
collapsible boat was delivered and they tested it. When folded, it took
up very little room. Attached to it was a metal cylinder containing
compressed air, and it was the work of a moment to open the valve in
this cylinder and inflate the boat. With it were two tiny oars and a
water-tight pocket in which could be packed medical supplies and
condensed food.

They inflated the boat, and Dad and Jack and Kiwi navigated their
strange craft about the harbor, returning to the houseboat all too soon
to please the boy who enjoyed this novel way of traveling.

The time before the hop-off was getting short, and there was still one
detail that gave them considerable concern. They could not seem to
prevent the vibration of the engine from interfering with the proper
functioning of their instruments. It was annoying to have one or the
other of their dials go wrong.

Jack finally decided to remove the whole thing, and regroup the
instruments so that all those which had to do with navigation would be
in one part of the board and the engine instruments in another. The
compasses, the drift-indicator, the dial which registered their turn and
climb were placed on one side, and in front of the Skipper were the
oil-pressure, engine temperature, tachometer or engine revolution
counter, the fuel gauges and the dial which showed their altitude.

The entire instrument board had to be protected in some way from the
vibration, and it was Billings’ scheme to set it on four rubber blocks
which he cut from ordinary rubber bath sponges.

All this took hours of Billings’ time, for each instrument had to be
disconnected and replaced. However, late one night it was finished, and
the Skipper decided that, inasmuch as the time was getting very short,
they would test it at once.

As the plane was rolled out of the hangar, the news spread that they
were about to go, and the crowds gathered. Their announcement that it
was only a test flight was not believed.

When they were ready to leave the ground they found the field covered
with people, and try as they would they could find no open space long
enough to make the take-off safe. It was a warm summer night, and
apparently everyone for miles around had driven to the field. The
Skipper and Jack eventually had to abandon the night test and wait until
morning.

A plan had been forming for some time in Kiwi’s mind. He had a queer
sinking sensation every time he thought of Dad and Jack going off
without him. He saw no reason why he, too, should not go when the plane
left.


[Illustration]


The stories he had heard of India made him want to land there, too. He
liked to think of the warm, tropical days and nights in that strange
country. Bert had brought him a book of stories about India which had
thrilled him. These stories told of hunting wild animals from the backs
of enormous elephants. He liked to imagine himself seated in one of the
howdahs—the canopied, chairlike saddle strapped to the back of a richly
decorated elephant.

He remembered one story of a playful elephant, said to be over a hundred
years old, who pretended to be thoroughly frightened every time he
crossed a stream of water for fear quicksands would suck him down.

He would picture himself wandering through the narrow streets of the
cities, with vistas of temples ahead—their domes shining in the
sunlight, covered with layers of pure gold that had been added to them
through the centuries, until, on some of the oldest temples, the gold
leaf was a quarter of an inch thick.

Kiwi had asked Dad a number of times to take him along, but Dad had
always dismissed his request as being out of the question. However, in
the darkness and confusion of that night attempt, Kiwi thought he saw
how it could be accomplished. He was sure that if there were as much
confusion at the actual take-off, it would be a simple matter for him,
in the darkness, to crawl under the plane, open the trapdoor in the rear
compartment, and slip in unobserved.

Kiwi realized that Dad would be upset about his disobedience, but he
felt sure that he could make himself useful on the trip, and that both
Dad and Jack would be glad he had come.

The more he thought about it, the more he knew he couldn’t bear to be
left behind, and the more determined he was to go with them. During the
next two or three days, as Dad and Jack were making the final test
flights, he worked out in his mind all the necessary details.

Weather reports were taking up more and more of Jack’s time, but Kiwi
kept up with his wireless practice. He could now send twelve words a
minute and receive almost ten.

About eleven o’clock one night, as Jack got his weather reports and
checked them up from his chart, he called the Skipper over and said:

“Things look as favorable now as they have for some time. There is a
storm near Chicago moving this way, but I don’t think it can possibly
arrive until about eight in the morning. There is another one directly
in our path in about the middle of the Atlantic; but from the reports I
have it is moving northward and should be well out of our way by the
time we get there. If you say the word, I’m for starting in the
morning.”

The Skipper replied, “The plane is ready. The weather is up to you,
Jack. Let’s go!”

Telephone calls were put through to the field and to the official who
was to seal the barograph[5] before they started. They sent word to Old
Bill at the lunch wagon to pack the food and to get the thermos bottles
filled.

Footnote 5:

  Barograph—An instrument which records on a chart the variations in
  height above sea level.

About twelve-thirty, when everything was packed and ready and they were
about to start for the field, they got another report from the weather
man. In the two hours that had elapsed since the previous report,
conditions had changed for the worse. The mid-ocean storm which they had
known about, had altered its course and was heading in toward
Newfoundland.

Jack and the Skipper talked it over and decided they had better put off
the attempt until there was a better chance of having favorable
conditions. This meant more telephone calls to tell of their change in
plans.

When they talked to Billings on the phone, he said that the field was
already covered with people and cars, and that it was more than likely
the crowd would refuse to believe the take-off had been postponed. He
said the plane was in perfect condition, and that he believed he would
stay at the hangar the rest of the night.

[Illustration:

  _The Skipper_
]

It was a great disappointment to Kiwi, for his excitement had risen to
fever pitch. However, he was packed off to bed, and for the next few
days all their plans waited on favorable news from the weather man.
Conditions over Long Island seemed perfect for the take-off. The moon
was just approaching the full.

Kiwi, for the first time, realized how many others were helping in this
tremendous undertaking. Wireless operators on many ships plunging across
the ocean were flashing their news of conditions as they found them at
sea. Other wireless operators in lonely places were sending their data
of wind velocities, rain and sleet. All this information was being
gathered and carefully analyzed for these two men who would soon come to
know the vagaries of nature at first hand.

Kiwi was already in bed and asleep one night when an unusual bustle
about the houseboat awoke him, and he sensed that something was up. Word
had come through that the path was open for the great dash across the
Atlantic.

Preparations to start were again made, with innumerable last things to
be thought of. Kiwi was able to pack a tiny lunch and stuff it into his
pocket unobserved.

[Illustration:

  _Jack_
]

They were rowing ashore to pick up Bert when Dad said to Kiwi:

“Now, boy, after we leave, you will be taking your orders from Bert.
Everything is taken care of, and he will look after you until we come
back. See that you always do what you know I would want you to do.”

Kiwi smiled, sheepishly, but could think of nothing to say.

The ride over to the field seemed to take hours. Neither Dad nor Jack
talked much, but Bert managed to say to Kiwi:

“Well, they will soon be off, and then you and I will sit and wait for
news of their arrival.”

As they drove onto the field they saw cars parked everywhere, and crowds
thick about the entrance to the building. They pushed through them, and
there in the lighted hangar stood the great bird ready for its flight.

It had been planned to start from the long runway on the adjoining
field, and the greater part of their load of fuel had been stored there
in readiness. Before the hangar doors were opened, all their kit had
been stowed in the plane, even Kiwi finding an opportunity to hide away
his little package of lunch in the rear compartment.

At last the hangar doors were opened, and ropes having been stretched to
keep the crowd back, the plane was rolled out, its tail lashed to the
rear of a truck and, followed by the crowd, it began its mile-and-a-half
journey to the other field across the rolling ground. Its mighty wing
bobbed and rocked about as if anxious to be off and away.

The moon was partly hidden by a thin layer of clouds so that the night
seemed unusually dark. There was practically no wind.

Arriving at the far end of the runway on the other field, the tail of
the plane was set on the ground, and flood lights were temporarily
placed which threw a ghostly glow over the “Dauntless.”

Cosgrave and Billings started at once to pump in the precious supply of
fuel. Jack went back to the hangar to get the last minute weather
reports, while the Skipper, easily the coolest person in the crowd,
chatted with the backers of his flight.

As the hours passed the crowd grew, but this time they were being held
back behind lines by the police.

Old Bill from the restaurant came puffing up with the thermos bottles
and sandwiches, and with a sly wink to Kiwi handed him a couple of
oranges, saying, “You may need these, Kiwi.”

Kiwi became more and more confused. He began to wonder if it were going
to be as easy as he had thought to stow away when the plane left. He had
not counted on those blinding lights. But he stuck close to Dad and
hoped for the best.

About four o’clock the tanks were filled. Fifteen spare cans, holding
four gallons each, had been stowed in the rear compartment and lashed
tight. The barograph was put aboard and sealed by the official from
Washington.

Billings, in a fever of excitement, decided they’d better give the
engine one more try; so the canvas tarpaulin over the engine and
propeller was removed and the engine roared into life. Billings ran it
long enough to satisfy himself that it was working perfectly, then
turned it off.

The heavy silence that fell was almost oppressive. A meadow lark sprang
into the air, with the exultant little song they sing at dawn. Everyone
was tense with the thought of the great test that was soon to come.

Jack came back from the hangar with the report that conditions were as
favorable as they had been at any time.

They waited for the daylight.

There was the sound of a motor overhead, and a plane with a news
photographer aboard swept over them.

Still the darkness lingered.

The sun by now should have been lighting up the eastern horizon.
Instead, came a patter of raindrops, and Billings rushed to cover up his
precious engine and propeller to protect them from the dampness.

It rained harder. Many of the crowd, seeing the engine covered up,
decided that the flight was off for that day.

A little group stood under the protecting wing of the plane and waited
to see how bad the storm would be.

Dad turned to Kiwi. “Kiwi, you had better look up Bert and go back to
the hangar with him.”

Kiwi’s face fell. Plainly disappointed, he nodded his head and
disappeared into the darkness toward the place where Bert’s car had been
parked.

The crowd thinned with the usual remark that this was another false
alarm.

As suddenly as it had started, the rain stopped.

Jack, who had expected these local showers, said he thought it would
clear up soon. Not long after, a faint, gray light appeared in the east,
telling of the approach of a new day.

The Skipper was impatient to get away. He told Billings to take the
cover off the engine, and he and Jack made a last examination of the
whole plane. They looked at the shock absorbers, noting that with the
heavy load there was very little play left in them. The Skipper said,
however, that there was enough.

By this time Billings was ready to start the motor. Before the eyes of
the small group who had waited through the rain, Jack and the Skipper
got into their flying suits.

The big moment had come.

In the excitement of the last minute preparations Kiwi had been missed,
and although Dad asked several of the men about the plane if he had been
seen, there were conflicting rumors. Some thought he had gone back to
the hangars; others were not sure but that he had found shelter in one
of the cars.


[Illustration]


Precious minutes were passing. The Skipper felt that the time had come
to go and that saying good-bye to Kiwi would be too much of an ordeal
for him. So he turned to Bert and said huskily:

“Say ‘good-bye’ to Kiwi for me. I am trusting you to take good care of
him. As far as I can see, everything has been provided for, and I know
he will be safe in your hands.”

Fearing to trust himself to say more, he hurriedly shook hands with his
close friends, gripped Billings’ hand hard and slapped him on the back.
Then he climbed up into the cockpit, where Jack was already waiting, and
the motor was started.

As the engine was warming up, the crowd could see through the glass
window the Skipper laughing nervously at some remark of Jack’s. Then he
opened the throttle and the huge engine made a tremendous uproar as he
gave it a final try.

Billings stood at one side, his practised ear listening for the
slightest skip in its measured beat.

The Skipper throttled back the engine, leaned out of the window, and
motioned for Billings. As he came up, the Skipper said, “How does it
sound? All right?”

Billings, who had listened to many engines in his day, who had seen many
men trusting their lives to them, and who had heard that same question
asked many times before, felt a lump rise in his throat as he realized
the tremendous responsibility that rested upon him and upon his answer.
He gulped hard, and then choked out, “All right, Captain—and the best of
luck to you,” waved to Jack, and motioned to Cosgrave to pull out the
chock from under the wheel on his side.

Billings and Cosgrave stepped back, and for a few moments that were
awful in their suspense they waited for the flight to begin.

The engine opened up gradually, took hold, and the plane slowly started
to roll along—the slow roll which was to start the Skipper and Jack off
on an epoch-making flight that would carry them across the wide
Atlantic, over the Mediterranean, and on to India. The engine had
started, and for seventy hours it would have to keep up an uninterrupted
flow of power.

The plane gathered speed, rocking gently as the tail left the ground.

Billings and Cosgrave had leaped onto the running-board of a fast car
and were speeding after it, watching it gather momentum for the
take-off.

Camera men took hurried pictures and scampered out of the path of the
approaching plane.

The end of the runway was getting perilously near when the first sign of
lift came. The Skipper was evidently coaxing her into the air, and the
first lift was a bit too soon, for she settled back to the ground for a
moment, seemed to gather new energy, and then rose surely from the field
just as they reached the brink of a little ravine.


[Illustration]


They were off!

In the early morning light the plane was hard to follow. It could
faintly be seen lifting its way upward.

Other planes, now that the “Dauntless” was up, soared alongside the big
ship as it carefully made a turn and headed for the east and the rising
sun. The entire group came back over the field at an altitude of about a
thousand feet.


[Illustration]


The crowd hoped that there would be a last fluttering good-bye from the
cockpit, but both men were too busy to do more than glance out.

The flight was on!

Billings and Cosgrave returned to the old hangar. Its vast emptiness
oppressed them so that they could hardly speak. They would have to wait
hours and hours to know what all their work would accomplish. They
looked forward to the long wait with dread.

Bert came up in a car and asked if they had seen Kiwi. Surely by now he
would have returned to the hangar. But no one had seen him since the
rain storm that had seemed, for a time, to blot out the Skipper’s
chances for a take-off. Bert hurried back to the other field with the
hope that he might still be there.


[Illustration]


In the small room at the back of the hangar, Connors was busy with his
wireless set. With the earphones on he bent over his instruments at the
table and tried to pick up the first message to come back from the
plane. From time to time the click of his sending key could be heard
through the partition.

Both Billings and Cosgrave were absentmindedly picking up the scattered
evidences of the hurried departure from the hangar. They had closed the
big doors, when Billings, very tense, suddenly swung around and
confronted Cosgrave.

“Cosgrave, you and me have been working hard on this job for a long time
now, and there have been times when I thought you were up to some
crooked business. The plane is off and away. If anything happens to
those boys that I can trace to you, I’m going to make you the sorriest
man that ever walked onto this field.”

Cosgrave turned a bright red at all this, but said nothing for a few
minutes, while Billings glowered at him. Then, seeming to come to a
decision, he said:

“Well, Limey, I think I can trust you. I don’t want you to mention this
to no one, but when I have told you I think you will understand.

“At the beginning I was offered money—and a lot of it—to try and stop,
or postpone, this flight. I was in a jam and needed money, and I thought
I could do something—nothing serious, you understand—that would look
accidental. But the longer I worked for those two men, the more I
realized that I couldn’t go through with it.

“Then when the Kiwi started flying with them and came so close to
getting cracked up the time they lost the wheel, I phoned the people who
were trying to buy me and said, ‘Nothing doing.’ And Billings, you can
believe me or not, but since that time I have worked even harder than
you to make this flight a success. There is nothing about that plane
now, as far as I know, that isn’t in perfect condition.”

Billings felt his anger rise during Cosgrave’s confession, and for a
little time he could think of nothing but punishing the man. With his
jaw set hard, he looked straight into Cosgrave’s eyes, trying to see
through to his very soul, to discover if all he had confessed was the
truth. Cosgrave’s gaze never wavered, and Billings at last decided that
Cosgrave had done no harm and all was right with the plane.


------------------------------------------------------------------------


[Illustration]




                               CHAPTER VI
                            THE FLIGHT IS ON


TO the two men in the cockpit of the monoplane, the tense drama of hours
had been packed into those few seconds of the take-off.

As the Skipper very carefully opened the throttle, the engine took hold
and the plane gathered headway. The soggy condition of the field after
the rain seemed to hold them back. They could feel the wheels of the
undercarriage sinking deep into the sod and the mud. Jack was conscious
for a fleeting second of the lights of parked cars reflected in
numberless puddles along the course.

The roar of the engine increased. They rolled faster and faster. The
Skipper sat tense watching his instruments, with an occasional quick
glance ahead.

They were rolling still faster now, gathering speed, and from the corner
of his eye Jack saw the Skipper push the control stick forward to get
the tail off the ground. Striking uneven spots in the field, the big
plane rocked gently. Still it seemed to drag. But always their speed
increased over the ground.

They were half way down the field, with still not enough momentum to
lift their heavy load from the earth.

Three-quarters of the way down the field, and no tendency to spring away
from the rain-soaked ground!

Jack glanced quickly at the Skipper’s face to see if all was well.

The Skipper was looking straight ahead in a fascinated manner as the end
of the runway approached, and the shallow gulley that lay beyond. Too
late now to shut down the engine and make another try. The next second
would decide.

The Skipper pulled gently on the stick, the plane lifted ever so
slightly, cleared the ground, dropped back again for one last little
bounce—and then it was almost as if the intense concentration of those
two men helped to lift that tremendous load into the air and hold it
there.

They whizzed off the end of the runway and soared just above the shallow
gulley which had been the grave-yard of an earlier attempt.

Once in the air, the plane gained altitude very slowly. Just ahead was
the line of hangars, one of which had housed it for so many weeks. The
Skipper turned the plane slightly so that they might pass between the
hangars and a line of trees. The red obstacle light on top of the
highest hangar was methodically flashing its warning. They cleared it
safely by several feet and continued their climb.

By the time they had gone a mile farther, they had height enough to make
a gradual turn and head into the rising sun.

As they came back over the field, escort planes came alongside, and in
one of them a news-reel photographer was steadily grinding the crank of
his machine, getting a record of their start.

The sun rose from behind a heavy bank of clouds and touched them,
lighting up the orange wings till they seemed a blazing flame. The land
beneath still lay wrapt in a blue haze. To their right a larger bank of
threatening clouds was even then sprinkling its waters into the distant
ocean.

The escorting planes came closer, looking tiny and unsupported, their
whirling propellers perfectly visible against the blue-gray background.

By the time the “Dauntless” had reached the end of Long Island, all of
them had turned back save one, and there its pilot, with his hands high
in the air, sent them a last handshake and a wave, banked his machine
sharply and left them.

It was like the last wave from a ship’s pilot as he sends the vessel off
to sea alone.

By this time they had fifteen hundred feet altitude and were beginning
to breathe easier. Jack leaned over to the Skipper and said:

“We’re off! How does it feel?”

The Skipper smiled and replied:

“She handles pretty well, but it did seem ungodly tail-heavy at the
take-off. The sooner we can get those small cans in the rear compartment
emptied, the better I’ll like it. We’d better not try it yet, but as
soon as we use some fuel out of the main tank we’ll empty a few of those
spare cans and heave them overboard.”

Setting their course across Long Island Sound, they could see ahead the
dim line of the Connecticut shore, and Jack lowered their wireless
aerial and clicked his first message to Connors. It was short and to the
point.

“Everything going well. (signed) DAUNTLESS”

About seven o’clock they were over Cape Cod and could see many boats and
steamers crawling over a smooth sea.

Jack sent another message to Connors reporting all well, then clicked
off in code:

“Signing off to empty fuel from spare cans.”

The Skipper nodded as Jack explained that he would now attempt the
replenishing of the main tank. He carefully climbed from his seat next
the Skipper, and had only just started to squeeze up into the space
between the top wing and the tank when he stopped with a start. Peering
at him over the top of the tank was Kiwi, with a self-conscious smile on
his face.

The Skipper partly turned to see why Jack had dropped back into his
seat. Jack clutched the Skipper’s shoulder, leaned over and shouted:

“_Cripes!_ The Kiwi’s with us!”

For a few seconds none of the three moved. The Skipper was plainly
unbelieving. He thought that Jack must be dreaming. Coming out of his
trance, Jack motioned to Kiwi to come forward.

Kiwi wiggled his way over the tank, still wondering how he would be
received. He shyly put one hand forward and grasped Dad’s shoulder with
as hard a squeeze as he could muster.

Dad realized then that Kiwi’s presence was an actual fact. Here was a
stowaway, another life that must be reckoned with in this adventure. He
would have preferred not having this additional responsibility. There
had been enough details to think about. But there was nothing that could
be done, and his plans must be adjusted to cover this new situation.


[Illustration]


Kiwi could only say in a shy voice, “I can help, Dad. And I didn’t want
you to go without me.”

Jack slipped back into his seat, put on his earphones, and sent out
Connors’ call letter. As soon as he got an answer, he clicked off a
message that the Kiwi was aboard, a stowaway, and that he would be put
on the usual bread and water diet of all stowaways and made to work.

The Skipper then said to Jack, “Here’s your helper for the gas.”

And to Kiwi he said, “Well, boy, you’re in for a long ride this time.”

Kiwi went to work with a will—unlashed the cans, unscrewed the tops, and
passed them over to Jack who, standing on his seat, poured the fuel into
the main tank. They disposed of five of them. As Jack opened the sliding
panel of glass beside him, a terrific stream of air blew into the
cockpit, and he hurled each can in turn as far out and down as he could,
so that they would not be carried back into the tail. Kiwi looked out of
his little side-window to see them tumbling into space, turning over and
over, the light glinting on them as they fell.

Beneath them the wind must have been freshening, for there were signs of
whitecaps on the level floor of the ocean. Dimly to the left could be
seen the shore line.

Shortly after eleven o’clock, Jack picked up signals from the _S. S.
Mauretania_. She was notifying the shore stations that she believed she
had sighted the “Dauntless” a short time before.

A little later they were passing over land, which Jack said was the
shore line of Nova Scotia.

Kiwi commenced to feel hungry, and busied himself peeling one of Old
Bill’s oranges, most of which he passed over to Dad and Jack.

Jack took over the controls and flew the plane a couple of hours while
the Skipper stretched himself and carried on a halting conversation with
Kiwi.

He learned how, when he had sent him to find Bert, Kiwi had made a
hesitating search, had circled back to the plane, and, without being
seen, had climbed into his place in the rear compartment.

Dad tried to look stern, but Kiwi could feel that already he had been
forgiven.

The plane hummed along, and they felt almost as though they were on a
picnic.

About twelve-thirty they passed Halifax, and Jack wirelessed that all
was well.

Soon they passed over some broken clouds and found the air very bumpy.
They were picked up and carried sometimes fifty feet before being
dropped. Jack had his latest weather map tacked to a small board in
front of him, and he remarked that they might expect this sort of
weather, or worse, before they reached Newfoundland.

They noticed a slight haze coming up before them, and for the next hour
they ran through intermittent showers.

Giving the Skipper his course to fly, after a careful checking with his
drift indicator, Jack called to Kiwi and they began the transfer of five
more cans of fuel to the big tank.

With the air as bumpy as it was now, this was no light task. Once, when
the plane gave a sudden lurch and reared upward with one of the bumps,
Kiwi lost his balance and tumbled over on the floor of his compartment;
and before he could pick himself up and rescue the can some of the
precious fluid had been lost. After that he was more careful, and braced
himself securely against the sudden lurching of their ship.

They were twice as long making the transfer this time, but it was
finally accomplished, and Jack heaved the empty cans overboard. This
time Kiwi was unable to follow them on their downward flight. Often they
disappeared from view within a split second of being hurled out.

The broken clouds were making the Skipper’s job of piloting much more
difficult. Trying to keep the plane on an even keel and follow their set
course took all his attention.

Intermittent showers beat down upon them, and big raindrops were carried
back along the under side of the wings in small, hurried rivulets. To
Kiwi in the back, with his nose pressed against the window pane, it
seemed like summer downpours that he had witnessed from their little
cabin back home.

He had become accustomed by now to the smooth roar of the motor, and was
not so conscious of the strain on his eardrums. Through holes in the
clouds he could occasionally see the ocean tossing black and green far
beneath them.

Jack wanted to make sure of getting a last bearing on land before they
swung off to the open Atlantic, and asked the Skipper if he could not
drop a little lower under the clouds so that Newfoundland would be
plainly seen.

Even under the clouds, which were only about eight hundred feet above
the water, the visibility was very poor. A thick mist was shutting in on
them. They flew on, trusting to their instruments, and once, later in
the afternoon, the clouds parted for a few moments and gave them just a
glimpse of land nearly dead ahead—not long enough, however, for them to
identify it positively. They hoped for another such break in the clouds
to help them with the navigation.

The bumpiness of the air was increasing. Jack caught a wireless call
from some station in Canada, but the message was so badly garbled by the
static that they could not be sure of its location. The call of some
ship could be faintly heard, but it also was too confused to be of any
use to them.

Between five-thirty and six they ran into an area of clear weather,
which lasted long enough for them to place definitely the land ahead as
Cape Race. It was just what they needed, and confirmed Jack’s navigation
figures. Using it as their last point of land, Jack changed their course
slightly and the real ocean voyage began.

They were not sure they had been sighted at this point, but rather hoped
so, and that the world would know they were well on their way. Below
them the sea looked angry and was flecked with white.

In his mind’s eye, Kiwi had pictured this breaking away from land, and
had thought that he would be able to look far to the eastward across the
Atlantic and feel its immensity. He was not so fortunate, for directly
ahead and seeming to bear down upon them were ragged gray clouds, and
rolling along the surface of the water a thick gray fog.

The plane was still being tossed about by the confused wind, and now
that they had their last bearing determined, it was the Skipper’s idea
to try and climb over these clouds. They were soon amongst them.
Darkness seemed to shut in almost at once, and the Skipper switched on
the running lights on the instrument board. Jack was watching his
instruments closely, checking their drift.

Kiwi, having no light in his compartment, crept up on the tank and lay
there watching the progress of their plane through these dense clouds.
The hand on their altimeter slowly turned ... three thousand feet ...
four thousand ... and if anything the clouds seemed thicker. The fog
condensed on the windows of their cockpit and was carried backwards in
wisps of water. Five thousand ... six thousand ... still as dark as
ever. The wing-tips could scarcely be seen.

At times the plane would plunge and rear, and Kiwi had to brace himself
to stay in position.

By the time they had reached nine thousand feet the darkness seemed a
little less dense. At ten thousand they came out into comparative
twilight. But even here they could not see the stars for there were
other light masses of clouds above them.

A long time passed, with only the drone of the motor to be heard, and
with nothing to be seen except piled up clouds in every direction. Kiwi
must have dozed, for he awoke feeling stiff and cold, how much later he
did not know. It took him a few seconds to realize where he was. Then he
saw Dad still at the stick and Jack bending over his wireless key, tiny
blue sparks showing that he was sending a message. Kiwi was just able to
follow the code which told him that Jack was asking some ship if his
signals were loud. The clock on the instrument board said half past two.
The ship replied, and Jack wrote the message out on a little pad beside
his instrument and showed it to the Skipper:

“Signals very loud. You must be near. Can you see our lights? Some fog
on the surface.”


[Illustration]


[Illustration]


Another hour passed. The same ship sent word that the signals were
getting fainter. But another ship broke in, gave its position and the
ship’s operator, and then sent:

“Your signals strong enough to knock our heads off. What is your height?
You must be just over us. We will send up rockets. Tell us if they are
seen.”

All three watched on every side, but nothing except a tumbled mass of
clouds met their gaze. The air up here was getting colder. Kiwi
shivered. The Skipper, looking back, noticed him, and it crossed his
mind that in the excitement he had forgotten to open the heater which
ran from the exhaust pipe on the engine. It was the work of a moment to
throw the lever over, and almost at once they felt the warm air come up
into the cockpit.

Jack took over the controls for a little time, and the Skipper and Kiwi
transferred the last of the extra fuel to the big tank and disposed of
the empty cans.

The Skipper made a hurried check of their fuel supply in both the wing
tanks and the main one, and appeared to be well content with the way it
was holding out.

Kiwi was taking small cat-naps on the top of the tank and beginning to
wonder if it were not time to eat again. It was still dark and there was
nothing to be seen—no moon, no stars, just a gray pall on every side.

He awoke from a longer one of these naps to find it much lighter and the
lights on the instrument board looking very yellow in the daylight. Jack
was just saying, “I think I’ve picked up the government radio station at
Malin Head, Ireland.”

While Jack was trying to pick up their message, the Skipper leaned
forward to switch off the instrument-board lights, and as he did so he
glanced out the window along the wing on Jack’s side and made an
alarming discovery.

The fuel pipe line from the wing tank ran along the outside surface of
the wing for a short distance, and then curved down to the fuselage,
where it came through to the main tank and the carburetor. In the curved
part was a flexible joint which had evidently vibrated loose, for
streaking out behind was a flow of their precious fuel. There was no way
of knowing how long this had been going on.

The Skipper had a terrible sinking sensation as he realized what the
consequences of this tiny leak might be. Perhaps gallons had even now
been lost and the seriousness of it appalled him. They would need every
drop they had to reach India, and already enough might have escaped to
ruin their chances of even making Europe.


------------------------------------------------------------------------


[Illustration]




                              CHAPTER VII
                              MID-ATLANTIC


WITHOUT a word the Skipper touched Jack on the arm. He looked up, and
the Skipper pointed to their trouble. As Jack took off his earphones, he
mechanically sent out “Stand by.”

Both Jack and the Skipper turned over in their minds plans for remedying
this trouble. The Skipper immediately turned off the flow of fuel that
was being pumped into the right wing tank from the main tank. The fuel
remaining in the wing tank continued to leak out, for it came through
the pipe line into the carburetor by gravity. By adjusting his valves
the Skipper drew on his supply in the left wing tank.

They were in a desperate plight. Something must be done at once to stop
this leak. Although they had tried to provide for every emergency, here
was one which would tax their ingenuity to the utmost.

They had a large roll of tape and a bottle of liquid similar to shellac
in the equipment; but whether Jack could reach back far enough to tape
the break was doubtful. However, he opened the sliding window beside him
and tried it. For the first time in his life he regretted his broad
shoulders, for the small window gave him no room in which to work. Once
the rush of the wind nearly tore the tape from his hands. He slipped
back into his seat to rest for a moment, after the twisting strain he
had been under.

Kiwi had been watching with absorbed interest while this maneuver was
going on. He asked Dad if he might try. The Skipper said it was
impossible; but Jack was on Kiwi’s side and thought it might be
accomplished.

With a little jockeying they got Kiwi down to the window, and with Jack
holding firmly to his legs he leaned far out and attempted to wrap the
tape around the break. The rushing of the wind was more than he had
counted on, and he felt it pull and claw at his clothes as he hung half
out of the window. In this awkward position it was almost impossible for
him to do anything, and he motioned to Jack to haul him back into the
cockpit.

Then Kiwi put forth the suggestion which made both the Skipper and Jack
catch their breath. Would Jack help him through the window and lower him
until his feet touched the struts which supported the wing, where he
felt that he could brace himself and do the job?

Kiwi saw a look of horror pass over Dad’s face, but he was sure it could
be done. Using all the arguments he could think of, he at last convinced
Jack, and Dad grudgingly gave his consent for the try.

Slipping out of his jacket so that Jack could get a firm hold on the
leather belt at his waist, Kiwi started, feet first, through the window.
Inch by inch he wormed his way out, reaching with his feet for the strut
where it joined the fuselage.

The Skipper banked the plane over to help Kiwi as much as he could. He
saw the perspiration stand out on Jack’s face, and noticed its set
expression as Kiwi’s feet groped about for support. Another inch and he
might reach it! The force of the wind was terrific.

Kiwi, under this strain, was not conscious of the cold now. He had to
look down to find the strut. Just at this time they were passing over
mountains of clouds. He caught a glimpse, hundreds of feet below, of a
yawning cloud valley with the churning masses of gray fog in a whirling
turmoil. Its awful immensity scared him for a second. Then he located
the strut with his foot and tested its strength.

As soon as Jack felt that Kiwi had some support, he lowered him until
both his feet were pressed against the strut. Then Kiwi slowly faced
around and found that he could just reach the pipe line. The orange side
of the plane stretched out behind him, and he was vaguely conscious of
the word “Dauntless” in huge block letters.

Keeping a grip on Kiwi’s belt with one hand, Jack with his other hand
passed out the roll of tape, and the slow work of winding it commenced.
Inch by inch Kiwi wound, the fuel freezing his fingers in the terrific
cold. He had one layer completed, and Jack passed out the shellac.
Somehow or other he got a coat of it over the tape. It dried almost
instantly, and the difficult work of another layer was begun.

Kiwi signalled to Jack that he must rest, and Jack eased him over to the
side, where he hung shaking with weariness from his efforts.

The Skipper was undergoing untold tortures, for he could only guess at
what was going on. Jack’s body at the window shut off his view of Kiwi.
He was doing everything in his power to hold the plane steady, using
every particle of his skill to keep the bumps from causing Kiwi to lose
his footing.

But in spite of all the Skipper’s efforts, one particularly vicious bump
caused Kiwi to slip, and for just a second he wondered wildly if Jack
could hold him from dropping off into that awesome space. His feet found
the struts again, and he rested.

Slowly another layer was put on, and the flow stopped. To make sure,
another coat of shellac was put on and another layer of tape. Just then
a few drops of rain warned of another shower.

At last the job was finished, and only time could tell if it would hold.

Then came the struggle to get the boy back into the plane. Slowly and
painfully he was drawn up to the level of the window. With a final tug
he was pulled inside, and Jack, with his last remaining strength, lifted
Kiwi to the top of the tank.

They were an exhausted crew for the next few minutes, there in the
middle of the broad Atlantic.

A great deal of altitude had been lost, and they were now in the midst
of churning clouds. It was quite probable that the Skipper, in trying to
make things as easy as possible for Jack and Kiwi during their terrific
ordeal, had gone considerably off the course. In tipping the plane over
sideways he had flown in big circles, and it was necessary that they
lose no time in resuming their straight flight.


[Illustration]


The Skipper at once began to climb back above the clouds. The plane was
still soaked from the rain squalls they had passed through. Not long
after, they came out into the bright sunshine, and there directly ahead
of them, like a promise for their success, was a tremendous rainbow. It
reassured their worn spirits, and the Skipper pointed it out to Kiwi
with the comforting words:

“There’s your pay for a good job done.”


[Illustration]


It was unlike rainbows seen on the ground, for the delicate colors made
a complete circle. Kiwi looked down and there on the uneven surface of a
cloud was the distinct shadow of their plane moving toward the rainbow.
Then the plane seemed to pass completely through it. Surely a good omen
for the success of their flight.

The Skipper felt that there could be no better time than this for a
little food. They finally located a package of sandwiches, and he and
Jack refreshed themselves from the thermos bottle. The coffee was still
piping hot. Kiwi, after eating a sandwich, finished the other orange
that Old Bill had given him.

Their spirits rose tremendously. Jack put on his head-phones and put out
a call to find some one who would verify their position.


[Illustration]


The Malin Head station in Ireland got signals through to Jack much
plainer than they had in earlier attempts. After some trying, Jack got
the latitude and longitude of Malin Head and their directional bearing.
Locating on the map the Malin Head station, and drawing a line on the
map on the bearing the station had given him, meant that a similar
bearing from a different angle would locate the plane’s position over
the Atlantic. He now needed a check-up from another station.

The _Aquitania_, twelve hours out of Cherbourg, sent its position, and
from its directional radio the bearing. It was then the work of but a
moment to make the necessary calculations, and Jack placed his pencil
point down upon the chart and said, “Well, that’s where we are now.”

About half of their water crossing had been accomplished.

Still Kiwi had no view of the ocean under them. In the hours since they
had left the coast of Newfoundland, they had always been in the clouds
or had had a heavy layer beneath them. They were flying at about eight
thousand feet, and ahead of them now was a huge wall of clouds that
seemed to extend upward fully eighteen thousand feet. The light shone on
them, lighting up the peaks and valleys of the cloud mountains. They
approached the clouds rapidly, and once in them the plane was plunged
into a heavy twilight.

The air bumps here were terrific, tossing them about, and the Skipper
was obliged to keep his eye constantly on the bank and climb indicator
in order to keep the plane on anything resembling an even keel. As they
had entered the clouds the wind had been nearly dead astern, and here in
the murky darkness they were compelled to trust solely to their
instruments for navigation. The wind caught them up in fierce eddies,
and swirls of gray clouds sucked up past them. Flashes of lightning
darted here and there. The plane seemed to have no more stability than a
kite.

Kiwi’s heart leaped as one tremendous bolt of lightning flashed before
his eyes, just ahead. He felt the entire plane quiver under the impact
of the blows struck by the wind. They had become accustomed to the roar
of the motor, and now it seemed as though they could hear the noise of
the storm.

As the wind howled by, they could feel the air growing colder and
colder. Kiwi watched the magnetic compass, set up high above the
instrument board, swing first one way and then the other with the
twisting and turning of the plane as it was buffeted by the winds.

Jack had stopped all attempts to use his wireless, and had his spare
control stick in place ready to help the Skipper should he tire from his
tremendous exertions. Both their faces showed the strain of flying
through the storm.

As the cold increased, sleet began to beat against the windows, and Jack
glanced out uneasily to catch the first indication of ice forming on
their wings. He realized the seriousness of such a happening. The upper
and lower surface of the wing was cambered, or curved, in a scientific
way to help lift the load of the plane, and anything that changed this
curve would destroy its lifting power. Therefore at the first sign of
ice forming on the wings they must begin a hunt for warmer air currents.
Ice often formed with great rapidity, and knowing this both the Skipper
and Jack watched closely for the first tell-tale sign. The engine was
throttled back about a quarter to the best cruising speed.

There seemed to be no end to the storm. It had been nearly half an hour
since they had left the clear sunshine and entered into this ominous
twilight. They had held their altitude, knowing that it was no use to
try to climb above the clouds, and having no assurance that it would be
better lower down. Every little while rain would suddenly fall, and as
suddenly stop.

All at once they were conscious of a thin film of the dreaded ice
forming over the cockpit windows. Jack slipped back the glass panel and
looked out. There on the leading edge of the wing was the unmistakable
sign that ice was starting to form. In uneven lumps it was building
slowly backwards....

Jack told the Skipper the disquieting news and shouted to Kiwi to slide
back to his window in the rear compartment to see if the trailing edge
of the wing was also gathering ice. Kiwi’s window was not as badly
obscured as were those in front. He could see a thin layer of ice on the
trailing edge working forward with great rapidity, and he crept over the
tank to report this to Dad.

“We’ll try it lower,” Dad said. “We may strike some warm air there.”

Shutting off the engine as much as he dared, they coasted on down and
down.

They tried it at the five thousand foot level for a few minutes. If
anything they accumulated ice faster.

They went down another thousand feet. The plane seemed to be much
heavier on the controls. Still no halt in the gathering of the ice.

The situation was becoming desperate, and the Skipper told Jack to try
and get into communication with some ship. If the ice kept on forming it
would mean that they would have to land on the water in another fifteen
or twenty minutes. In order to fly level it was necessary to run their
engine almost at its maximum.

They brought the plane lower down, and still they could see nothing but
swirling clouds.

Jack was sending out their call letter with the S O S to show that they
were in trouble. He got a feeble answer, and worked with his instruments
trying to bring it nearer and clearer.

Still the hateful ice piled onto them. Extending back from the leading
edge of the wing it was now fully an inch thick. It was freezing in the
narrow slots of their ailerons. The Skipper was finding it increasingly
difficult to balance the plane sideways.

He came down to a thousand feet, straining his eyes for a glimpse of the
ocean underneath. All was gray and murky.

Jack was working feverishly with his sending key and listening for an
answer to his calls. Two ships in their eagerness to help were
interfering with the reception of either message.

The engine was now wide open, and they were staggering along under the
load of ice. They could not see the tail of the plane, but knew from the
way the elevator operated that it, too, was covered with ice. Slowly
they were losing altitude.

Jack was getting one of the calls a little better. The ship was sending
her position and asking for theirs. The Skipper, now thoroughly alarmed
and feeling that they were to be forced into the water, called to Kiwi
to get their collapsible boat and put it where it could be reached in an
instant. It was stored in the rear.

Kiwi made his way back, unlashed it from where it hung, and started
forward. As he crept to the front he saw Jack, every nerve tense, trying
to make out the code, and Dad straining his eyes to catch the first
glimpse of the heaving water.

Nothing but the deep grayish blue everywhere.

Suddenly, out of the gloom ahead, they made out a white shape rising
straight up a hundred feet above them. It looked pale and ghostly. There
was no time to figure out what it might be. The Skipper instinctively
yanked the stick back. The plane staggered up, making a valiant effort
to obey the demands of its pilot. Jack glanced up from his instruments
just in time to see this white spectre approaching with terrific speed.
He turned a look of amazement and horror upon the Skipper.


[Illustration]


The plane climbed ever so sluggishly, but as the shape came rushing at
them they saw that it would be cleared if only by a matter of inches.

“It’s an iceberg!” exclaimed Jack.

The Skipper pushed the stick forward and leveled out just as their
flying speed was dropping to an alarming extent. He was hardly quick
enough, for one wing dropped and they started into a flat spin. At once
the Skipper put the nose down until they had flying speed.

They rushed along. Realizing that there might be more bergs in the
neighborhood, both watched ahead with a fascinated gaze. They saw two
more—one to their right, so close that their throats tightened with the
fear of it.

Strangely enough the air here seemed a little warmer. The plane was
handling better, and they began to hope that the ice was not gaining on
them.

Twenty minutes went by, and they began to feel a little easier. Now
there was no doubt but that they had hit a warm air current and the ice
was melting.

The Skipper was able to throttle back the engine and still keep an
altitude of about one hundred feet above the ocean. They were close
enough now to see the mighty heave of its waters, the blue-black of its
surface broken here and there by white foam as the waves broke.

Another hour they hurtled along, the air getting clearer, when suddenly
Kiwi noticed away to their right a big ship plunging along. The red of
her funnels and the white of her decks contrasted sharply with the
dullness of the background. He pointed it out to the two men in front,
and the Skipper bore over toward it.

“Send them a message, Jack, that we’ll keep going,” he said.

Jack started with his key, sent out his call letter, and waited for its
acknowledgment. The answer came, very faint:

“Your signals weak. Can hardly hear you.”

He tried again. The answer was just audible.

“Can’t hear you. Are you sending?”

By this time they were very close to the ship and Jack shouted to the
Skipper:

“Something wrong with the wireless. They can’t hear us.”

During the next few seconds it took to come abreast the ship, it flashed
through the Skipper’s mind that at the time of their narrow escape from
the iceberg it was quite possible that their wireless aerial, trailing
underneath, had been torn off. He barked out to Jack:

“Try sending the message with your flashlight!”

Among the numberless things that had been stowed away aboard the plane,
Jack had provided himself with a powerful flashlight to use in such an
emergency.

As they swooped low over the ship they could see the rails lined with
passengers staring up at them. Jack opened his window and thrusting the
flashlight over the side started blinking the message as the Skipper
tilted the plane over and began a wide circle around the liner.

Kiwi was craning his neck over Jack’s shoulder, and saw a light sending
out flashes from the bridge. Profiting by Jack’s training, he was able
to read the ship’s message. It said:

“Your flashes too weak. Can’t read them.”


[Illustration]


Informed of this, the Skipper decided that they would have to write a
note and try to drop it on the decks.

Jack hastily wrote out the message:

“Trouble over. We’re going on. Your position, please.”

Looking for something with which to weight it, his eye lighted on one of
the bottles of water, and with a rubber band that he had been using to
keep his writing pad in position, he fastened the note to the bottle and
signalled the Skipper to fly into position to drop it.

The Skipper swung in a wide circle and approaching the ship from the
stern as slowly as he could, he yelled to Jack:

“Heave it out when you’re ready!”

As they flew directly over the ship they felt a great air bump as they
crossed the smoke-stacks and were struck by the heated column of air. As
they passed the bow of the boat Jack leaned far out and threw the bottle
downward.

Kiwi felt the plane lurch as Dad turned it quickly to watch the bottle’s
descent. It went hurtling down, and for a second it seemed as though it
would strike the bridge. Then the wind caught it, it struck one of the
lifeboats and bounded off into the water. It was disheartening, but they
must try again.

Jack wrote a repetition of the message, and then was at a loss to know
what he could use to weight it with. There was just one more bottle of
water, and it was too precious to use for this purpose. Both Jack and
the Skipper thought fast. Then the Skipper said, “Here,” and reaching
into his inside pocket beneath his flying suit, he pulled out a
cigarette case. It was a silver case, heavily engraved, that the men of
his squadron had presented to him at Christmas, 1918, after the war had
ended.

Jack made a sign that it was a shame to risk it, but the Skipper
shrugged his shoulders, and Jack hastily added to the message, “Return
this case to Captain McBride later.” He slipped the message inside the
case and clicked it shut.

The Skipper jockeyed into position for another try. This time he came
down even lower and kept to the leeward side of the ship. Rushing along
nearly on a level with the top decks, they had passed the ship before
Jack had time to hurl his message.

Again the Skipper swung the plane around, and this time as he drew
alongside Jack leaned out and threw the case with all his might. It went
spinning toward the ship, sailed over the rail, struck a hatchway, and
was pounced upon by one of the stokers on the forward deck.

The crowd on board waved frantically to the plane above. The “Dauntless”
swung in a wide circle and came back over the ship for the last time. A
puff of steam from the whistle and a flashing light on the bridge showed
that those on board had read the plane’s message were sending them the
ship’s position and a “good-bye.”

Straightening out on their course, after Jack had read the ship’s
answer, they flew on at top speed and soon left the ship far behind.

Kiwi scrambled back to his little window, and with his face pressed
against the pane saw the liner melt into the haze. A great feeling of
loneliness came over him as he saw it disappear from view. The fleeting
glimpse he had had of other human beings had served to bring home to him
their utter detachment from the world. He commenced to realize how long
they had been on their way, and thinking back over their trials and
adventures he suddenly felt very weary. He longed for sleep, but Dad
called out:

“How about some lunch, Kiwi?”

Kiwi unwrapped his own sandwiches and climbing up on the tank offered
them to Dad and Jack, but found that they were already busy with some of
their own. The food and coffee seemed to cheer up the two men, and the
engine hummed merrily along carrying them on their way.

Sitting crouched on the top of the tank, Kiwi’s head nodded several
times. Feeling himself slipping off into slumber, he stretched out.
Above the noise of the engine he could hear Dad singing with great gusto
an old negro spiritual that he was very fond of:

               “I’m goin’ to tell God all o’ my troubles,
                   When I get home.
                I’m goin’ to tell God all o’ my troubles,
                   When I get home.

               “I’m goin’ to tell Him the road was rocky,
                   When I get ho-o-m-m-e.
                I’m goin’ to tell Him the road was rocky,
                   When I get ho-o-m-m-e.

               “I’m goin’ to tell Him I had hard trials,
                   When I get ho-o-m-m-e.
                I’m goin’ to tell Him I had hard trials,
                   When I get ho-o-m-m-e.”

Kiwi must have slept for a couple of hours. He awoke with the feeling
that something was wrong. Almost instantly he discovered that the steady
beat of the engine had changed. It was missing and spluttering and the
plane was vibrating in a terrifying way.

Jack was working with his wireless instrument. Kiwi saw him shake his
head and complain, “Nothing I can do will bring those signals loud
enough to be of any use.”

He gave it up and the Skipper asked him to check up the amount of fuel
they had left in their tanks. Yes, there was plenty of fuel, for the
Skipper nodded his head.

They were above the clouds. As far as the eye could see they were
stretched out in a rolling plain, looking for all the world like drifted
snow. They looked solid enough to land upon.

If their engine failed to pick up within the next few minutes, they
would lose altitude until there was nothing left to do but crash ... and
their flight would end in disaster.


[Illustration]


------------------------------------------------------------------------


[Illustration]




                              CHAPTER VIII
                           CONDITIONS CHANGE


THE sun was getting lower in the heavens, but having spent so much time
in the murky twilight of the clouds, the light still seemed very bright
to them.

The clouds beneath them remained unchanged. Kiwi looked straight down
and watched them as they drifted by until he became almost giddy. He
called Jack’s attention to the shadow of the plane racing across this
uneven surface.

Soon the sun disappeared from view, but the uncanny light still held.
They flew on and on. There was nothing to see in all this vast plain.

No one seemed to be able to reason out where this uncanny light was
coming from since the sun had set. All felt that a change had come over
them. Where a few minutes before they had stared at disaster, now they
ceased to worry about their engine or its failure.

The plane nearly flew itself. There were no bumps, and it needed very
slight correction at the controls to keep it on its course. The clear
light seemed to come from tiny bright particles in the air such as one
sees on a dewy morning.

Gradually Kiwi became conscious of something ahead. Far off on the
horizon the rolling clouds seemed to merge into something else. Could it
be hills that he saw? He looked at their altimeter. It showed that they
were flying at about twelve thousand feet. He glanced back to the
horizon, and the land seemed plainer. He thought he must be dreaming. He
rubbed his eyes vigorously and looked again. It was still there.

He glanced at Dad and Jack to see if they, too, had discovered it.
Jack’s head was nodding and he appeared to be asleep. Dad was leaning
forward with an intent gaze, brushing the back of his hand across his
eyes as though he, too, could hardly believe that what he saw was true.

Kiwi saw him throw a quick glance across at Jack’s charts, study them
for a moment, and then look quickly ahead again. The apparition was
still there. The Skipper studied it for some minutes. It seemed miles
and miles away, but was getting plainer.

Kiwi thought he could see darker masses slightly to the left.

Dad was still straining forward, and without moving his eyes from the
horizon nudged Jack. Jack came to with a start, noticed the Skipper’s
tense attitude, and peered ahead through that peculiar light. Slowly he,
too, discovered those strange shapes. He consulted his map, then the
compass and drift-indicator. Puzzled, he turned to the Skipper. Plainly
here was something that neither could understand. At last Jack was able
to say:

“Can it be a mirage?”

Without moving his eyes from it, the Skipper replied:

“It’s possible. Early one morning over St. Omer in France, I saw
something like it for a few seconds. But this has been in sight now for
some time.”

With each passing second the apparition was becoming a little more
distinct.

Kiwi leaned forward, and asked:

“What is that, Dad? Have we reached land?”

Dad shook his head, and there was another long pause as they all studied
this appearance of land ahead. Jack looked at his charts and knit his
brows. He went over their course on the map and shook his head, as
puzzled as ever. He could find no solution.

Now the hills, instead of coming nearer, seemed to recede. It should be
night now, if their clock and watches were right. The dazzling light
still puzzled them.

A little later, Jack turned to the Skipper and said:

“Doesn’t that look like a plane just above the horizon?”

In another few minutes they made out several more circling just over the
hilltops. And then, off to the right, they could see about a dozen
planes flying in formation. They also decided that some tiny specks on
what seemed to be the surface of the clouds were other planes, resting
there.

A look of helplessness was beginning to cloud the Skipper’s face. There
had been few times in his flying experience when he had not had a very
good idea of where he was. Once or twice he had been lost in the air,
and it carried with it a feeling such as one never has when lost on the
ground. On the ground, even on the darkest night and in a strange
country, there was always the possibility of meeting someone who could
supply directions, or of finding a signboard that would locate one. But
in the air there was no passing stranger or friend that one could ask
for help.

The Skipper remembered the first time that he had been hopelessly lost
in the air.

It had happened while he was training in England. He had flown to an
airdrome several miles from his own, hoping to find there an old friend
and to renew acquaintances. He had followed a railroad line, which in
almost every case is perfectly visible from the air and is the shortest
connecting link between cities and towns. This particular railroad
skirted in a wide circle a town near the airdrome he was to visit, and
it was joined there by several other branches of the road.

Locating the airdrome, he landed. As he came down a severe rainstorm had
swept over the field. Upon learning that his friend had been transferred
to another airdrome, he was anxious to be off and away; but those at the
field counselled him to wait until the storm was over.

In about twenty minutes the heavens above the field were clear, and he
took off to return to his own airdrome. Picking up the railroad line
again, he was confronted with the problem of deciding which branch he
must follow. Relying on his compass, which he had every reason to
believe was accurate, he chose the one that seemed to lead off in the
right direction.

He had followed it for some time at an altitude of about five thousand
feet when he overtook the same storm. The tops of the clouds were too
high to surmount. They also extended nearly to the ground, and were
emptying torrents of rain over miles of country. There was nothing to do
but fly through them; and although in those days he had had little or no
experience in flying a compass course, he felt that now would be a good
time to practise it.

Entering the clouds he had been appalled at the turmoil. The swirling
winds carried him this way and that. He was dropped down fifty or a
hundred feet and as quickly snatched up and carried upwards. He fought
the storm for half an hour, marveling at the force of it.

His whole attention was devoted to keeping his plane on an even keel.
Occasionally he glanced at his compass to see it turning this way and
that, so that he had only a hazy idea of his general course. He watched,
fascinated, as the lightning played through the thick clouds. Always he
kept a close watch downward to catch the first view of the ground,
hoping against hope that his guiding railway line would appear
somewhere.

When the air did clear below, he was horrified to find nothing but water
beneath him. For a matter of seconds he flew on, hoping that it might
prove to be a lake or the wide mouth of a river.

Slowly it was borne in on his consciousness that he was out over the
North Sea and that very probably his compass had been playing him tricks
and could not be depended upon. However, the right way _must_ be back,
and losing no time he swung his plane around and started in that
direction.

Almost at once he was again swallowed up by the storm, the rain coming
down upon him in torrents.

His goggles became obscured and he pushed them up to get a clearer view
ahead. The unaccustomed rush of wind and rain in his eyes made it
impossible for him to see with any distinctness. After coming through
the storm the first time, he had promised himself that never again would
he voluntarily repeat such an experience. But here he was back in it
again, fighting as hard as before to keep the plane flying in some
semblance of a straight line. He could keep no track of the time, and
when the storm did lessen he felt that it must have been hours that he
had been fighting those contrary swirls of air.

A great feeling of relief welled up in him as he at last saw land
underneath. Even though he had no idea of his location, at least there
was solid ground under him. Bewildered, he looked for a sign—some town
or some familiar forest formation—that would locate him.

Off to one side he saw a railroad line. Whether it was the same one that
he had been following or not, he could not tell. But it would surely
lead him to a place that might help him. The plane he was flying was a
difficult one to land on a small or uneven field, and he had no
intention of taking that risk unless it was necessary.

Sighting a town ahead he flew low, hoping to read the sign on the
railroad station. His eyes still smarted from the rain. The station
proved to be too well surrounded by telegraph wires on tall poles and
the chimneys of a factory to permit him to fly near enough to make out
the name.

He was completely lost. There was no doubt of it. There was nothing to
do but go on, even though his fuel supply was getting dangerously low.

Another town, some distance away, lay wrapt in a haze. Approaching, he
was overjoyed to recognize in the center of it a large, star-shaped
building, probably a hospital. From this point he knew he could find his
way. He remembered that near by there was a large country house
surrounded by a formal garden. He looked in the direction where he
expected to see it, but it was not there. When he did locate the house
it seemed completely turned around, and he had to readjust himself to
this changed condition before he could shape his course for home. As he
did so, and the compass ceased its slow turning, he discovered that it
was off many points and had been one of the causes of his bewilderment.
He was now able to find his way to his own airdrome without further
trouble.

Now, again, the Skipper had the same peculiar, lost sensation. Even
though he had Jack, an expert navigator, with him, the situation in
which he found himself brought back the old baffled, hopeless feeling.
It had been a long time since they had left the ship behind—since they
had seen anything but this rolling plain of clouds—and now they were
facing a situation so unusual that he felt numb trying to understand it.

Land seemed to be ahead where their charts told them no land could be.
Several planes were flying in their direction. One, large and unwieldy,
approached quite close, its occupants leaning over the side, studying
them.

Kiwi thought he knew every type of plane that was being flown in his day
and age, but he had never seen one like this before. Jack pointed it out
to the Skipper and they both examined it closely.

Suddenly the Skipper blurted out, “Why it’s a Gotha!”

As the plane came nearer to them it dipped lower and made its ponderous
way to one side; then it swung in a wide circle and drew close behind
them.


------------------------------------------------------------------------


[Illustration]


As they flew on, other planes passed above and beneath them, and the
Skipper’s face grew more and more bewildered as he identified, one after
another, planes long obsolete in the flying world. A monoplane, such as
Bleriot had made history with in crossing the English Channel some
twenty years ago, appeared. Early types used in the war swooped down
upon them.

As they sailed along the great plateau, more and more planes whose
pilots seemed filled with curiosity came into view.

They were being hemmed in closer and closer. Dotted here and there on
the surface were machines of every conceivable design. The crew of the
“Dauntless” were at a loss to explain it all.

Stretched out on his perch on the top of the tank Kiwi was immensely
interested in the sight.

One pilot in an old bombing plane, a clumsy flyer at best, edged in so
close to get a better view that the Skipper had to turn sharply to avoid
a collision. Everywhere they looked were antiquated planes continually
closing in on them.

The Skipper began to fear that he would never be able to pilot the
“Dauntless” through this swarm. As they twisted and turned, Jack leaned
from his window and tried to signal the other planes that they _must_
stay farther away. They were like a cloud of birds pecking at an owl who
had looted their nests. The Skipper grew nervous at the thought of being
driven down to a landing.

There seemed to be a concerted action to keep the “Dauntless” from
continuing its flight. Try as he would, the Skipper could find no way in
which to shake off these persistent pursuers. Their motor which a short
time before, with its missing and spluttering, had brought their hopes
of ever seeing India to an end, now functioned with absolute perfection.

Constantly they were being driven closer to the surface, and even though
they had outdistanced some of the heavier and slower machines, others
had taken up the chase and were frolicking about them.

Kiwi was delighted with their tumbling antics.

In a few minutes more they were so close to the ground that there was
nothing left for them to do but land. The Skipper, his face red with
anger, yanked back the throttle; the motor quieted down till the
propeller was just ticking over. They glided rapidly in. The wheels
found support on the surface. They had landed.


------------------------------------------------------------------------


[Illustration]




                               CHAPTER IX
                             ANOTHER WORLD


AS the plane rolled to a stop, both Jack and the Skipper found their
tongues. What was the meaning of this performance? Why were they forced
down? Where had they landed? Certainly these other pilots were not
treating them or their flight to India with the seriousness that they
deserved.

The Skipper remarked in a disgusted tone of voice as they climbed out:

“It looks like a good-for-nothing training ground for pilots from all
over the world, except that most of them can fly and fly well.”

The other planes were now landing all around them and their pilots,
clambering out, hurried over and started examining every detail of their
machine. They were a good-natured lot and seemed to have no idea of
harming them in any way.

Kiwi was still in the cockpit of the plane, not knowing what to do.
Several of the pilots spied him. Plainly delighted they shouted to him
to come out and join them.

The Skipper, still bewildered, looked up as Kiwi started to climb
through the window, and said:

“Watch out, Kiwi! Better let me help you down.”

With that a great shout went up from the crowd:

“Here’s a Kiwi!”

It was then that the crew of the “Dauntless,” looking about, realized
that there was nothing but pilots anywhere in sight.

There was a commotion on the edge of the crowd, and elbowing his way in
was a tall young man wearing a British officer’s uniform. Grasping the
Skipper by the shoulders, he swung him around and then blurted out:

“Well, if it isn’t Skipper McBride, of all people!”

At the same time the Skipper recognized him and exclaimed:

“Why, Thorne, what are you doing here? And where are we, anyway?”

Thorne told him that he had been there for a long, long time—he could
scarcely remember how long.

“We keep no track of time in this place, Skipper. You’re in another
world now. The nights follow the days and we have nothing to worry
about.”

Then he wanted to know who Jack was and also who the boy was.

The Skipper explained to him hurriedly of their flight and of their
hopes of landing in India; how Kiwi, who was his son, had at the last
minute stowed away aboard the plane, and how he had been able to help
them in their journey over the water.

Thorne suggested that they get out of their flying clothes, and that he
would take them to a place where they could rest up.

As Jack was removing his suit, Thorne and one or two of the others spoke
up:

“Well—here’s the Navy! There’s a whole crowd of your fellows here, and
no doubt you’ll find many friends among them.”

They had started off toward the edge of the field when the Skipper
stopped and asked if something could not be done for their plane. Thorne
waved him aside with, “Oh, it’s all right where it stands. Don’t worry
about it.”

As they were walking along, Thorne became interested in Kiwi, and asked
him how he liked flying. Kiwi, who had admired Thorne immensely from the
first, chattered to him of their adventures in the clouds and of their
narrow escape from the iceberg.

Arriving at the edge of the field they were made comfortable. Then a
message came for Jack that a crowd of his Navy friends, hearing of his
arrival, would be landing soon at a nearby field, and would he come over
and join them.

Jack left, saying that he would return later.

The Skipper now took this opportunity to ask Thorne more about this
flying world in which they had landed.

Then Thorne began:

“This little kingdom of which you and Jack and Kiwi are now a part is
composed entirely of aviators who, in the other world, gave their lives
for the advancement of aviation. Among us here are men who made
experiments with the earliest gliders, who tried to fly crazy
contraptions built by the rule of thumb and flown more by confidence
than by knowledge. There are also among us pioneers who tried to find
ways and means of doing impossible things in the air. The last war
contributed hundreds who were the founders of traditions for the use of
aircraft in battle. Some were sacrificed in order that the need for
parachutes for every pilot should be recognized. Many whose names are
even now unknown in aviation, here have found their place and here their
merits have been recognized. Test pilots, those unsung heroes of
experimentation, form a large part of our numbers. Beginning with the
legendary Icarus and continuing up to the present time, a steady stream
of recruits have flowed into our kingdom, and they mark the progress of
man’s conquest of the air.”

Then Thorne rattled on, in a way that the Skipper remembered as
characteristic of him in the old days, recounting stories of pilots they
had both known.

Both Jack and the Skipper found many friends. Only a short time before
several other planes attempting to cross the Atlantic had landed here.
Two Frenchmen with glorious war records were part of the group. They
told their stories of fighting the elements over the Atlantic and their
experiences with the treacherous ice.

They talked on and on and all seemed anxious to know the details of any
new developments that were being made in aircraft. Anything that had to
do with flying interested them.

Kiwi sat and drank in their stories. But since his talk with Thorne, he
had had little to say, for he felt that he was something of an outsider
inasmuch as he really did not know how to fly.

As time went on, more flyers gathered round. Some were old friends of
the Skipper’s; others, pilots who knew him or knew people whom he knew.

Always overhead there were planes tumbling about. Kiwi looked up and
watched them stunting, rolling and looping like so many swallows on a
summer afternoon. All their motors seemed to run without a skip or a
miss, and once or twice he saw pilots floating lazily down in parachutes
apparently just for the joy of it.

An all-red plane came skimming close over their heads. The Skipper
looked up quickly. He pointed it out to Kiwi and said:

“That’s a Camel plane. Remember—I told you about them?”

The plane came back and landed not far away, and a pink-cheeked young
fellow slid to the ground and came on a run to join their group.

The Skipper recognized him at once, and pulling Kiwi to his feet he
said:

“Here’s old Armbruster—the fellow who taught me to fly.”

Kiwi looked the new man over with the greatest admiration, for Dad had
told him many stories of Armbruster’s flying skill. He remembered Dad’s
telling how he would take off from the ground into a loop, just missing
the field by inches as he came around; how he had, on a dare, flown
through a long hangar with just a few inches to spare on either side;
how he used to fly across the tops of some saw-tooth hangars, just
touching his wheels lightly on the top of each peak as he passed. Dad
had said that Armbruster was the most natural flyer he had ever seen. He
never needed instruments to tell him what he was doing.

Armbruster, when he found out who Kiwi was, made a great fuss over him.
He asked Kiwi all about Dad and what he had been up to. He wanted to
know all about their flight and about the plane they were using. He
suggested that he and Kiwi should go and inspect the “Dauntless.” Of
course Kiwi liked the idea.

Leaving Dad gossiping with old friends, they walked over to where the
plane stood and climbed over it. As they were sitting in the cockpit
together, Kiwi turned to Armbruster with the greatest seriousness and
said:

“You know, sir, I have never really learned to fly, but Dad has been
promising to teach me for an awfully long time. Do you think, Mr.
Armbruster, maybe you could find time to do it?”

Armbruster was delighted.

“Sure,” he said. “I know just the plane, and later I will borrow it and
we will send you off in no time.”

[Illustration:

  ARMBRUSTER
]

After they had inspected all the instruments, some of which were new to
Armbruster, they climbed out of the cockpit, Armbruster remarking that
never before had he seen such a big petrol tank in a plane. Then turning
to Kiwi, he asked: “How would you like to make a tour around and see
some of _our_ machines?”

This was just what Kiwi had been hoping for, and for the next couple of
hours they went from one plane to another while Armbruster pointed out
their characteristics and the peculiarities of each.

He showed Kiwi a Sopwith-Dolphin, a compact biplane in which the pilot
sat so that his head came above the top plane. That was a good plane
during the war, Armbruster told him. It could go up high—about 20,000 to
22,000 feet—and had a back stagger so that the pilot had a good view
both up and down.

Then they came to a Spad. Armbruster explained how the French had used
them to splendid advantage, how fast they were, how beautifully they
maneuvered, and finished up by saying, “All in all, a beautiful bus.”

[Illustration:

  _SPAD_
]

Alongside this plane was an enormous Handley-Page, its body towering
above the little Spad, the wheels of its undercarriage being almost as
high as a man. Two Rolls-Royce engines drove it through the air, and
while they were talking about it another one came down to land, its slow
descent reminding Kiwi of a freight elevator.

So they went from one plane to another. Soon they came to a German
Fokker D7, painted in glaring colors with lavender wings and a pink
body.

Armbruster said, “That’s Schaeffer’s machine. He and I had a good many
scraps during the war over around St. Quentin. However, neither one of
us ever did much damage to the other, although one day he did get a
couple of shots through my center section. If he is around anywhere I
want you to meet him, for he and your Dad had a few skirmishes, too, in
the old days.”

Armbruster next pointed out an S.E.5, but this was not new to Kiwi. He
had seen several of them back on the field at New York where they were
being used for sky-writing.

[Illustration:

  _DOLPHIN_
]

A little later they came to where, sitting all alone, was a rather
clumsy-looking plane, which Armbruster said was a B. E. They were known
to all the war flyers as Quirks. Turning to Kiwi, Armbruster remarked:

“Kiwi, there’s the plane that your Dad learned to fly in, and I am going
to borrow it and see how well you can handle it. It’s a clumsy old
thing, but you will love it before you get through with it. Let’s go and
look up the pilot it belongs to, and if he says the word I’ll take you
for a flip right now.”

Kiwi’s excitement began to rise, and even though they had not been able
to finish their flight to India, he began to feel that learning to fly
would be compensation enough.

As they strolled back in the direction of the group that surrounded the
Skipper, pilots called to them from all sides. A boy among all these
older pilots was considerable of a curiosity, and they all seemed
envious when they learned that Armbruster was to teach him to fly.


[Illustration:

  _FOKKER D.7._
]


They rejoined the Skipper and his friends, and Armbruster started off to
find Hamer, who flew the Quirk, to get his permission to use the plane.

Just then Kiwi heard Thorne say:

“What happened to little Jimmie Dugan? We heard at one time that he
would join us, but no one has ever seen him. He certainly started for
here.”

Then the Skipper told the story of Jimmie Dugan and his adventures, and
they found out at last why Jimmie Dugan never came.

Jimmie, though an American, had joined the Canadian army. From the first
he had disliked carrying a rifle and had got a transfer into a unit of
sappers. It was their job to dig tunnels far out under the lines, pack
them full of explosives, and when they thought the enemy least expected
it, touch them off from a safe distance with an electric fuse.

This form of amusement Jimmie had soon tired of and felt that he needed
a little more action out in the open air; therefore in due time he
became a dispatch rider, and sped over the highways and byways of France
on a motor-cycle.


[Illustration:

  _SE-5_
]


Getting a taste of speed, Jimmie looked about him for something better,
and, as he expressed it, “Having worked _under_ the ground and _on_ the
ground, I thought, why not try the air?”

His commanding officer, having in mind Jimmie’s smashing destructiveness
with motor-cycles, had some misgivings about transferring him to the
Flying Corps. There the possibilities of damage were increased a hundred
fold. However, Jimmie made his officer’s life miserable until it was
accomplished.

Jimmie had learned to fly with only the usual few crashed
undercarriages, and had been hurried out to the front during March of
1918, when pilots of any kind were in great demand.

Arriving at a squadron near Bailleul, Jimmie had been plunged into the
war in the air without the customary few days in which to get acquainted
with the lines. Almost miraculously he had done his work and escaped
injury during the hectic days that followed upon the enemy’s
break-through in March.

Because of the terrific losses in pilots and planes during those days,
Jimmie found himself a veteran of the squadron within three weeks. Time
passed quickly. Every one was living his life to the hilt, resting his
jangled nerves as best he could during the days it rained or clouds were
too low for work aloft.

At the end of six months Jimmie was due for leave. His orders read that
he was to catch the leave-boat for England on a certain afternoon. A car
was leaving the squadron at eleven o’clock in the morning which would
take him to the coast.

It was an unwritten law that pilots need do no flying on the day that a
Channel boat is to take them to England and comparative safety.

However, by this time Jimmie’s whole life was flying and fighting. As
his kit bag was all packed, he decided to go off with the morning patrol
for just one more look at the war.

It was a morning when their part of the front was comparatively clear of
clouds. Off to their left, as they climbed, they could see banks of
broken clouds that became thicker and heavier toward the horizon where
England lay.

As they crossed the pock-marked and broken and torn country where men
were living like so many rabbits, Jimmie sighted up in the sun a group
of specks, looking as if a handful of pebbles had been tossed up there.
They had not long to wait to discover whether they were friend or enemy.

Six Fokkers, their noses pointed down, their motors going full blast,
swept down upon them. Jimmie could see the sun reflecting upon their
brightly painted wings.

Jimmie’s flight was out-numbered, for one of the S.E.’s had found it
necessary to turn back with engine trouble just before they arrived at
the lines.

The fight that followed had no new aspects for Jimmie. It had happened
many times before. The familiar dryness was in his mouth. He felt the
old thrill and tingle of the uncertainty of it as he pulled over and did
a half-roll, making the first Fokker miss him on its dive.

In the confused minutes that followed he had no time to follow his
friends in their efforts. They were all veterans like himself, and he
felt relieved that Campbell, the new man with the squadron, had left
them because of his dud engine before the fight started.

Jimmie was having his own troubles with a fellow in a Fokker with blue
wing-tips. They were evenly matched until another Fokker, heavily
camouflaged, had streaked a line of tracer bullets through Jimmie’s
struts, while his entire attention had been given to focusing his sights
on the blue wing-tips.

As he yanked his S.E. around to drive this newcomer off, the fellow for
a fraction of a second did the wrong thing, and a burst from Jimmie’s
machine-gun found its mark. The plane staggered like a wounded thing and
went down out of control.

Jimmie turned quickly in time to see his blue wing-tip fellow engaged by
another S.E. They were some distance off, too far for Jimmie to be of
any help for the moment.

He looked about for new worlds to conquer. The fight had broken up his
patrol. They were scattered widely, and now an anti-aircraft battery was
devoting its whole attention to preventing Jimmie from regaining his own
side of the lines.

The first burst startled him as it came up alongside and spread out
level with him. The w-u-u-m-p of its explosion made his machine shudder,
and he saw a ragged hole in the wing about four feet from the fuselage.

“I must fool this fellow,” Jimmie said to himself, and as two more
black, greasy palls of smoke followed the first, he changed his
direction and steered toward them, knowing that the gunners would change
their range slightly before trying again. Then for a few seconds he
twisted and turned, lost height and gained it again, till the enemy
gunners apparently decided to try for some of the others.

Away to his left Jimmie saw another S.E. picking away at an enemy
two-seater. Inasmuch as he had the advantage of height, he decided to
help in this little matter. Getting terrific speed from a long dive, he
zoomed up under the fat belly of the enemy machine just as the other
S.E. was swinging in from the other side. They both opened up with their
guns at the same time. The two-seater reared up into the air like a
bucking horse, quivered for a moment, slid off on one wing, and a slow
curl of black smoke streamed from it as it went spinning downward.

Jimmie’s heart jumped within him as he saw their enemy go down. He
yelled at the top of his lungs, trying to drown out the sound of his
motor, “Not so bad for a leave day!”

Then Jimmie remembered he must catch the tender before eleven. He looked
at his watch and decided that he could just make it if he started for
home now. He throttled back his motor a little and made his way north.
The wind had drifted him south and east, but always keeping a sharp
lookout behind he made his way toward home.

He felt hot and tired now, and began to think of his leave and of the
two weeks he would spend in England. He knew old friends would be there,
and he began counting up the money he had saved for this vacation from
the war.

The erratic shooting of an anti-aircraft group of batteries brought
Jimmie’s mind back to the war with a snap. If these gunners were
shooting at him they were mighty poor marksmen.

Then he discovered a Camel machine starting on a long dive. He looked
below to see what was attracting this fellow, and there only about
fifteen hundred feet off the ground was one of those fat sausage
balloons which carry officers in its basket who correct the fire of the
artillery.

Jimmie gasped as he thought of this fellow taking a chance with a
balloon, for he knew full well that a Camel had no business trying that
sort of work. They dived too slowly to be effective, and observation
balloons were always heavily protected by machine-guns. Having the range
of the balloon, they could surround it with a perfect hail of bullets
through which it was necessary to pass in order to set the balloon on
fire.

The thought flashed through Jimmie’s mind, “Well, if that fellow’s
trying it, why shouldn’t I? I still have time to take a shot at it and
catch the leave-boat.”

They were both diving now from opposite sides, the Camel’s guns just
starting to spit, when Jimmie was horrified to see the Camel quiver and
burst into flames.

This fact was just impressed upon him when he heard the sing of bullets
and the crackle of wood, and felt a stream of hot metal scrape both his
legs. One terrific jolt hit him in the chest—and he went down.

His last conscious thought was of a burning sensation in his legs, yet
there was no fire. All went black before his eyes and he must have
fainted.

When Jimmie came to he found himself still strapped in his seat, the
engine pointed straight down in front of him into comparative darkness,
while pale daylight streamed in upon him over the tail.

Slowly he looked about him. The wings were gone! Turning his head with
an effort, he saw them lying twisted and torn among the red tiles on the
roof of the Belgian house into which he had crashed. Below him was a
turmoil of sound. Deep, gutteral voices spoke in a tongue he did not
understand. He tried to unhook his belt but was too weak to do it.


[Illustration]


After minutes and minutes of talking and shouting, a ladder was put up
beside him, his belt was unhooked, and he was lifted out of the machine
and carried to the floor below. Here they tried to make him walk, but he
found it was impossible. So they carried him down to the basement of
this house, and there, of all places, he found there had been fixed up
an enemy first-aid station.

Jimmie saw the heavy face of the doctor as he bent over and impersonally
examined him. The doctor spoke to an assistant, they both looked him all
over again, and then the doctor gave a quick, sharp order to the
stretcher-bearers who were waiting. They picked him up and carried him
into another room, setting the stretcher down upon the floor.

As he looked around the bare little room, he made out two other
figures—one stretched out in a bunk built into the side wall and filled
with straw, the other on a stretcher near by. A soldier with a gun
leaned against the doorway and inspected Jimmie curiously.

Gradually it came back to Jimmie that it must be eleven o’clock. There
was a pain in his chest which hurt him to breathe, but still the thought
persisted in his mind, “The car goes at eleven for the leave-boat.” Then
he slowly and painfully realized that the leave-boat was not for him. He
was down ... he had crashed ... he was on the wrong side of the
lines....

If he could only breathe easier things wouldn’t be so bad. Through the
doorway came a man dressed all in black with a long cinnamon-colored
beard. Suspended from his neck on a silver chain was a cross, which he
fingered as be made his way to the figure in the bunk. It came over
Jimmie that this was a priest who had come to give the Last Sacrament to
a man who was not expected to live. The priest finished his rites with
the man in the bunk, then turned to the figure on the other stretcher,
and again came the low mumble of his voice.

He next approached Jimmie.

Then Jimmie began to understand that the doctor had sent him to this
room because he was not expected to live. This worried him not at all.
He felt sure that if the obstruction in his chest could be removed, if
he could take one long, deep breath, everything would be all right.

As the priest came toward him, Jimmie set up a great outcry. Not
realizing that the priest might not understand English, he explained to
him over and over again that he _must_ be sent back to the doctor, and
that if the doctor would remove this lump in his chest all would be
well.

The priest appeared to be unconvinced. Jimmie half raised himself on his
stretcher, and repeated again and again that the priest _must_ send for
the doctor. At last the priest seemed willing to humor him in his wish,
patted him on the head and went out of the room.

Left alone, Jimmie was more miserable than ever, wondering if the priest
had understood.

After what seemed to him an eternity, the priest came back,
gesticulating with his hands to the doctor who accompanied him. Jimmie
repeated his demands and the doctor, apparently convinced, leaned over,
opened Jimmie’s tunic, and after another examination had him carried
back to the operating room. After a few torturous minutes with a
peculiar wire instrument, the doctor gave a triumphant “Ach!” and held
up for Jimmie’s inspection a piece of metal the size of his little
finger, and saying “Souvenir” handed it to him.

Jimmie tried, weakly, to take it, drew a long breath, and almost at once
began to feel better. For the next few minutes the doctor worked
rapidly. He bandaged up Jimmie’s chest and legs, and finishing his task
this man in an enemy uniform seemed as pleased as did Jimmie.

“And then,” the Skipper continued, “when I saw him after the war was
over, he was being helped off a hospital boat at Folkestone, limping on
two canes, it is true, but otherwise apparently none the worse for wear
except that he had no buttons on his coat, his wings were gone, as were
all his badges of rank.

“After I had talked to him for a few minutes I said:

“‘It looks as if the souvenir hunters had been busy with you. Where are
all your buttons and your wings?’

“Jimmie replied, with a slow smile:

“‘I didn’t lose them until after the Armistice. So many people in
Belgium had been good to me, had shown me so many kindnesses, that I had
to do something to reward them. And it was a very pretty girl who got my
wings.’”

During the telling of the story of Jimmie Dugan’s adventures, Kiwi had
listened with divided interest. He was ever on the watch for
Armbruster’s return. That he might now get his chance to learn to fly
was of more importance to him than stories of other days.

He did not have long to wait. Very soon the cheery face of Armbruster
appeared, and he called out from a distance:

“All right, Kiwi! I’m ready now if you are!”

The Skipper looked up quickly. Kiwi put his hand appealingly on his
father’s arm.

“Captain Armbruster,” he said, “has just promised that he will teach me
to fly. May I go with him?”

By this time Armbruster had come up to the group, and he explained to
the Skipper his plan to teach Kiwi.

“I believe I have the same old Quirk that you learned on,” he said to
the Skipper, “and I’m curious to see what sort of a hand this son of
yours has for flying.”


[Illustration]


------------------------------------------------------------------------


[Illustration]




                               CHAPTER X
                          KIWI GETS HIS WINGS


AS Kiwi, Armbruster and the Skipper moved over to where the Quirk sat,
they were followed by the entire group who were interested in this novel
experiment.

Armbruster helped Kiwi into the front seat, and then they discovered
that his legs were too short to reach the rudderbar. A shout was sent up
for more cushions. When two of them had been wedged in behind the boy’s
back he could work the rudder very easily. His helmet and goggles were
adjusted and the belt holding him in his seat snapped in place. Then
Armbruster attached the telephones so that he could speak to Kiwi up in
the air, and swung himself into the rear seat. The engine was started.

As they left the group of onlookers there were shouts of encouragement
and Jack, who had just come over, called above the noise of the engine:

“Kiwi, don’t loop him the first time up, will you?”

Kiwi grinned, self-consciously.

They trundled some distance out on the field and turned into the wind.
Then, with the propeller just ticking over, Armbruster said:

“Now, Kiwi, I am going to teach you to fly very much as I taught your
Dad long ago. No harm can come to you here in learning to fly. But I
know you would like to be just such a pilot as your Dad is, and so I am
going to teach you, as he was taught, how to overcome the dangers which
follow stalling a plane in the air and what you must do if the engine
stops suddenly.

“I’ll take the plane off the ground with my set of controls, and after
we get well up in the air I’ll let you fly it straight with your stick
and rudder for a while. You know how it feels to be up. You know how the
rudder works—that it swings the plane from side to side. You know that
the joystick in your hand moved sidewise keeps your wings balanced;
moved forward sends you down; pulled backward pulls the nose of the
plane up. Now take your feet off the rudder and let me see both hands
outside until I tell you to take over control.”

Kiwi did as he was told.

Once in the air, Armbruster could not resist stunting the plane about
over the heads of their audience. Kiwi was treated to an exhibition in
flying such as he had never experienced before. The plane dived toward
the group below, swished up in climbing turns, swung dizzily off on one
wing and, as the wires whistled, pulled sharply around and recovered its
poise. Kiwi had difficulty keeping his sense of balance or a clear idea
of what the plane was doing.

After several minutes of such antics they flew straight and, wiggling
the stick violently, Armbruster told Kiwi through the phones that he
might fly it.

“First of all,” he said, “just keep the plane straight. Keep the nose on
the horizon—pick some point on it and fly toward it.”

Kiwi felt elated that at last he was actually controlling a plane. He
couldn’t resist pushing the rudder slightly with his foot to see what
effect it would have. It startled him to find that the slightest
pressure sent the nose of the plane skidding sidewise. He hurriedly
tried to correct this with the other foot, and discovered that he was
overdoing it and that they were see-sawing back and forth in a crazy
fashion.

The voice of Armbruster came through the phones:

“There, Kiwi, not too much rudder. Rudders are dangerous things. They
have caused a good share of all the accidents.”

Kiwi had the feeling that Armbruster had hastily corrected his errors
and he gained new respect for the art of flying.

Armbruster’s reassuring voice told him to try again. This time they
sailed along very calmly, the nose on one spot on the horizon, seen
through the glittering whirl of the propeller.

Again came Armbruster’s voice:

“Your left wing is low, Kiwi. Pull it up slightly with your stick.”

Here was another thing for him to watch out for!

At the end of a quarter of an hour they had gone a long distance from
their friends and Armbruster said:

“I’ll turn the plane around and then we’ll fly back.”

As Kiwi felt his instructor take over the controls he let them go, and
the plane swung around in a small arc. Then the voice came:

“Now, Kiwi, take me home.”

On the way back Kiwi practised again, only once getting into
difficulties when he got the plane into that alarming zigzagging.

They made several trips to distant points and back again. Then
Armbruster said, “We’ll land now and take a rest.” And Kiwi confessed to
himself that a rest from this concentration would be most welcome.

As they landed and taxied up to the group, several called out to know
how the pupil was making out. Kiwi was elated to hear Armbruster say:

“The boy is good. A little heavy on the controls, but we’ll have him
flying in no time.”

Dad grinned at him as he climbed from his seat and gave him an approving
pat as he came over to where Dad and Jack were standing with Thorne.

After a few minutes’ rest, and his instructor had had a smoke, they went
up again.

Kiwi practised once more on this simple business of keeping the plane
straight and on an even keel. Then Armbruster’s voice came:

“We’ll try a turn—a turn to the right—that’s an easy one. Now, keeping
your hands and feet lightly on the controls, you feel what they do while
I make this gradual turn.”

And while he was doing it, Armbruster repeated several times:

“A little bit of bank and a little bit of rudder—round she goes. Now you
try it. Pull the stick slowly over to the right till your wings bank up;
then when you have enough bank, pull the stick back to the center and at
the same time push your rudder slightly to the right.”

The plane swung around dizzily.

Armbruster’s voice came through the phones: “Ah, you used a little too
much rudder. It skidded that time. Now we’ll try another one.”

This time Kiwi’s combination of bank and rudder were more nearly right,
and the plane turned in a more normal fashion.

They flew straight for a while and then tried another turn to the right.

Armbruster now said:

“We’ll try one to the left. That’s harder because the torque of the
propeller tends to pull the plane around to the left if you give it half
a chance. So this time you need less pressure on the left rudder than
you had before on the right.”

Kiwi’s first try was not so bad. But a later one pulled the plane around
with a terrific snap and it commenced to do things that were beyond
Kiwi’s understanding. He felt Armbruster’s hand on the controls as he
rescued him from this predicament, and the old singsong came to him now,
“A little bit of bank, a little bit of rudder—round she goes.”

This flight lasted much longer than the other, and before they had
landed Kiwi was beginning to make smooth and graceful turns in either
direction.

During one of these later turns Kiwi was much startled as his engine
stopped in the middle of one of them, and they seemed to be in
difficulties. Then he noticed that Armbruster had throttled back the
engine, and his clear voice came to Kiwi saying:

“I just wanted you to know what would happen if the engine suddenly
stopped in the midst of one of your turns. You must quickly put on more
bank and more rudder. If you don’t do this in time, you’ll find the
plane out of control. Try a few more turns and I’ll stop the motor in
some of them and you correct for it.”

After a few more minutes of such practice they landed and rejoined the
others.

Kiwi was bubbling over with the excitement of what he had learned and he
had a thousand questions to ask both Dad and Armbruster about his
experiences. They talked it all over and tried to tell him what he must
do in each emergency.

If the engine stopped unexpectedly when flying straight, he must
instinctively push the stick forward, keep the nose down, and keep his
flying speed. If it stopped during a turn, he must rudder into the turn
and keep his flying speed. Always he must do these things instinctively
when the motor failed.

Dad and Armbruster and Jack all had stories to tell of some spectacular
experience when motors failed at crucial moments in the air. Always when
in the air the pilot’s ear is attuned to the steady beat of the motor
and he listens for its first missing stroke.

Another young flyer had joined the group and was listening interestedly
to the talk about failing motors. During a lull in the conversation he
said:

“Failing motors in the air are often bad enough, I grant you, but during
the war a failing motor on solid ground turned out to be much more
tragic for me.

“I had just returned to my squadron from a two weeks’ stay in England
and was talking to old friends and getting accustomed to the new faces
in the mess. The other pilots were admiring the new outfit I had
bought—shiny new field boots that I had had made at that little shop in
Oxford opposite Exeter College, my whipcord breeches that were the pride
of a maker on the Haymarket in London, while my tunic came from Regent
street—when an orderly came up and handed me a slip of paper. It
requested me to report to the Major at once.

“I hurried over to the squadron office to my commanding officer. He
looked up when I entered and said:

“‘I know you are just back from leave and may not have your bearings
yet, but the people at the Wing Headquarters have just given me a job
which is in your special line. You have done it so many times before
that you should have no trouble this time. We have another spy to land
back of the lines tonight, and since Gathergood is gone, you are the
only man I have who can do the job. Here on this map is the location
where you must land this fellow, and he’ll be here ready to start with
you at eleven-thirty. I’ll have the Sergeant-Major get a good machine in
readiness for you.’

“There was nothing for me to do but accept this doubtful honor. Landing
spies back of the lines was no child’s play, as you know. If caught,
your uniform was no protection. You, too, were classed as a spy and met
a spy’s fate.

“However, as it was then only nine-thirty I went back to the mess and
had a rubber of bridge before word came that my spy had arrived. I
hurried over to the hangar, and as it was a warm night did not stop for
a flying suit. I wrapped a muffler around my neck, slipped into my
helmet and goggles, and climbed into the machine which the mechanics had
all ready with the motor started.


[Illustration]


“My passenger was already in the rear seat. I had no time to talk to
him. He gave me a jaunty little wave with his hand and then slipped down
low in the cockpit out of the way of the wind from the propeller. He
looked like any middle-aged French peasant that one might meet on the
road.

“Almost automatically I taxied down the field and took off. As I came
across the hangars and swung over toward the direction of the lines, I
saw that the lights in the hangars were being switched off and knew that
all would be darkness there until it was time for my return.

“The motor hummed sweetly and I began looking for landmarks. There was
no moon and the earth was a black smudge beneath me. I crossed the lines
at a great height and could just discern the Lys River as a dim streak
in the inky blackness. There were a few star-shells coming up from the
direction of the lines, and here and there an occasional flash of
artillery fire. It was a quiet night in this particular sector. A few
miles to one side two searchlights were groping aimlessly across the
sky. All seemed serene and peaceful up aloft.

“Shutting off my motor so that the propeller was just slowly turning
over, I started on a long glide through the darkness. Leaning over the
side I tried to pick up the little village that was to be my brief
stopping place.

“Lower and lower we slipped through the still air. For a few moments I
was a little confused, but upon switching on the light on my instrument
board and consulting my map, I located a particular road that led
through a large forest. By this time my spy was also leaning far over
the side, and as we came lower he pointed out the field we must land in.

“It crossed my mind as we were getting low over the trees that I should
have opened up the engine for a few seconds to keep it warm. A long dive
such as we had just made was apt to cool it to the point where it might
not pick up again when I needed it. But there was no time for that now.
We were too low and the noise of it might arouse troops that happened to
be in the vicinity. Sideslipping into the field, I straightened out just
in time, and we came to a stop beside a fringe of trees.

“My passenger lost no time in getting out. He was just clambering over
the side with a parting ‘Au revoir,’ when the motor and my heart-beats
stopped at the same time.

“I explained to him rapidly in a low voice that he must turn the
propeller over for me to start the motor again. He was willing enough
but unaccustomed to such work, and he was not able to swing the
propeller hard enough to do the trick.

“Unhooking my belt I jumped out. I had tried twice to turn it over when
we heard the pounding thud of heavy boots on the road. It meant that we
were discovered. Evidently soldiers in the neighborhood had heard the
sing of the wires as we glided into the field.

“The spy said, ‘Be quick! Or they’ll stop you!’

“Swinging frantically on the propeller I tried twice again. But the
engine refused to start. We could hear the crashing of underbrush as
they approached, and without more ado the spy touched my arm and said,
‘Follow me!’

“We darted into thick woods and then through a clearing just as our
pursuers discovered the plane. They must have halted to examine it, and
thus gave us time to cover a lot more ground. The spy seemed familiar
with the territory for he swung into a path through the forest which led
to another road. We could hear the searching party floundering about in
the woods, but they did not seem to know which direction we had taken.

“Cautiously following the road we kept well in the shadows and came at
last to a stone farmhouse surrounded by a wall. The spy motioned me into
the darkness of a doorway and told me to wait. He rapped cautiously at
the gate with a peculiar knock, and sometime later a man’s voice
answered him. The two men held a long consultation, and with many
gestures seemed to be pointing out a direction.

“Then the spy came back to me and explained briefly that it was too
dangerous to stay there—it was too close to where the plane had
landed—and that we must make our way to a certain house about three
miles farther on.

“Then began a nerve-wracking walk through roads and lanes. At one place
we made a wide detour to avoid going through a town. If only I had worn
my flying suit it would have covered my uniform and made it a little
more difficult for the chance passerby to recognize me as an enemy.

“At last we came within sight of the farmhouse, which was to be my home.
I was left in the shadow of a wayside shrine while the spy went ahead to
make preparations for my reception.


[Illustration]


“He came back in a few minutes with word that the coast was clear. I was
taken into the white kitchen and introduced to the Belgian peasant and
his wife and their son. He was about Kiwi’s size and regarded me shyly.
They talked together for a long while, in what I took to be Flemish,
apparently trying to decide how best to conceal me. The peasant and his
wife seemed apprehensive, and the spy informed me that they were fearful
that at any moment the Germans might come to search the house.

“A peasant outfit such as the farmer wore was given me. I discarded my
uniform and field boots and slipped my feet into heavy wooden shoes such
as they wore.

“Another consultation took place and a decision was finally reached. My
precious uniform was to be destroyed! And as I sat sadly before the
fireplace, my boots, breeches, tunic—one after the other—went up in
flames. For only two days had I swanked about in them—and now they were
gone.

“Realizing that I could speak nothing but English, which was entirely
unsuited to my present rôle, they pondered a long time on how to
overcome this difficulty. The spy, who must have been quick-witted or he
never could have succeeded at his profession, solved it by painting the
lower half of my face with iodine and binding it up with dirty cloths.
He explained to me that if the house should be searched and I should be
questioned, I was to indicate to the Germans that I had had an accident
to my jaw and was unable to speak.

“There were several narrow escapes for me during the weeks that
followed.

“The spy left just before dawn with the comforting word that he would be
back for me in a few days’ time and conduct me through the lines.

“The days dragged into weeks, the weeks into months, and still I stayed
on in this little farmhouse and watched our fellows flying overhead,
ceaselessly bombing an innocent patch of woods which they probably
thought contained an ammunition dump.

“Eventually I got through the lines and back home and was able to set
them right about that harmless strip of woods. But you can easily
understand why I feel so strongly about engines failing, even on the
ground.”

The whole crowd laughed at the mournful face of the young fellow who had
just told the story. He looked as though he were living over again the
loss of his precious new uniform.

During this recital Kiwi had been stretched out on his back gazing up at
the cloud-flecked, blue sky above him. A pilot in a very old type of
plane had been doing the most spectacular flying just over his head
during the whole story. He was dressed in ordinary clothes, had no
helmet, but flew with a peak-cap worn backwards. Diving vertically, he
pulled out just over their heads, grinning at them as he did so. Then he
climbed straight up until he was a tiny speck in the blue and repeated
his hair-raising dive.

Kiwi marveled at this performance. Never had he seen a plane stay in a
vertical dive so long and come out of it unharmed. And this flyer seemed
to get so much satisfaction from the maneuver and repeated it so many
times that Kiwi finally inquired who he was.

Thorne told him that the pilot was one of the best of the early American
flyers, who had been well known for this particular maneuver—and even
here he was famous for it.

They watched him as he at last tired of flying and came down to rest on
a solid-looking cloud above their heads. He got out of his machine,
waved to those far below, and stretched out on the soft surface of the
cloud for a nap.

Back home this would have astonished Kiwi, but here he was becoming
accustomed to such things and did not consider it at all queer. Here he
was seeing all sorts of strange things which interested him but had
ceased to bewilder him.

Later on he was to see workshops everywhere, in which inventors were
puzzling and studying over machines that in the other world they had had
no time to develop.

One young fellow provided a great deal of quiet amusement for the others
by exhibiting a large bump on the back of his head, which he proudly
said was developing into a third eye.

Thorne explained to Kiwi that here was another of those war flyers who
had been struck with the idea during the war that an additional eye in
the back of one’s head was absolutely necessary for a flyer; that he had
concentrated all his thought upon it, and that here he felt he would
surely grow one.

Kiwi now became restless and got up to stretch his legs.

Armbruster rose too and said:

“Kiwi, let’s get on with the flying.”

They strolled over to their old plane which, though somewhat battered,
still bore the number on the tail that the Skipper remembered so
well—A-4812.

“Now this time, Kiwi,” Armbruster said, as they resumed their seats, “I
am going to let you take the plane off the ground. Remember, open the
throttle slowly till the engine is running smoothly; then, as the plane
gathers headway, push the stick forward till the tail is off the ground.
As it rolls along and gathers speed, pull the stick back ever so little.
If the plane doesn’t rise, don’t force it but wait till it seems to pick
itself off the ground. Keep a sharp look ahead and be sure and fly
straight. Don’t let it swerve.” Then he added, “All right! Let her go!”


[Illustration]


Kiwi did as he was directed, but was warned a few seconds later, “Don’t
get the tail too high.” And as they were speeding over the ground, “A
little back pressure on the stick,” came through the phones; and then
the plane started to rise. Kiwi’s eyes were glued on the horizon and he
concentrated on keeping the plane in a straight line until the voice
told him it was time to turn.

He swung cautiously around to the right and was pleased to hear
Armbruster’s voice telling him “That’s fine!” They practised turns to
the right and turns to the left, and Armbruster landed the plane two or
three times so that Kiwi could take it off and master that particular
lesson.

They finally landed, for it was getting dark.


[Illustration]


Early the next day Armbruster said:

“Now we’ll start on the landings. I’ll pick out a certain spot for you
to land on, and you must judge your distance just right, throttle back
the motor and glide down. Be sure and keep the nose down so that your
flying speed doesn’t register below fifty-five miles an hour. Then, as
you see the ground approaching, pull back slightly on the stick until
you are flying on a level with the surface and just a few inches above
it. It takes a lot of practice to judge this distance just right. You
will find it’s easier if you look over one side or the other of your
cockpit—whichever is more natural for you, do it that way. Then as you
are gliding along level and just as you feel the plane start to sink,
pull the stick back in your tummy and you’ll land all right.”

Kiwi took the plane off and did a few wide turns to the right and to the
left until he realized he was performing big figure eights in the air.
Then Armbruster said “There!” and pointed to a spot upon which they
should land.

Kiwi’s first try at throttling back was too soon. He felt his instructor
push the throttle forward again. But his next try seemed right and he
glided down to make a landing. He watched, fascinated, as they drew
closer to the ground, flattened out too soon, and discovered that they
were flying level at least twelve feet off the surface.

Armbruster put the engine on. They climbed up and came back and tried
again. This time Kiwi judged his distance better. They glided in,
bounced a bit, but came to a stop with no damage done. Again and again
this was repeated until Kiwi had learned to gauge the distance
perfectly.

Stopping in the middle of the field, Armbruster called to him that now
they would change places. Kiwi knew this meant that Armbruster trusted
him. He took his cushions and moved into the rear cockpit. They took off
again.

He made several landings from the back seat, and then his instructor
said:

“There’s a few more tricks you’ve got to learn, Kiwi. I’m going to take
you up and put you in a tail-spin and you must get out of it.”

Before going up again his instructor explained to him that all his turns
up to this point had been gradual ones in which the control surfaces
acted in a normal manner.

“To make a sharp turn,” Armbruster further explained, “it is necessary
to increase the bank to keep the plane from skidding out sidewise. In
banking sharply, where the wings tip up until they are vertical, the
action of the elevator and the rudder is reversed. That is, you now use
your elevator as a rudder and your rudder as an elevator.


[Illustration]


“You must get this firmly fixed in your mind, Kiwi, for it is very
important. If you don’t, when you come to make a vertical turn and find
the nose dropping, you will instinctively pull back the stick which, in
the vertical position of the plane, will not lift the nose. For now the
elevator, acting as a rudder, only makes your turn sharper and the nose
will continue to drop. To correct this you must lift the nose with the
rudder.

“Are you sure you understand this, Kiwi? Starting to make a turn, you
put on a little bit of bank and a little bit of rudder. As you put on
more bank and the wings approach the vertical, the stick is returned to
neutral and you reverse the rudder to keep the nose level, gradually
pulling the stick back to keep you in the turn. That’s the way to make a
vertical turn.

“Now if you do this wrong, and the nose drops and the plane starts to
spin toward the earth, shut off the engine, put your stick and your
rudder neutral, and immediately when they _are neutral_ press the stick
forward so that you will get into a straight dive. The plane will then
be behaving normally and can be pulled out of the dive in the usual
fashion by pulling back gently on the stick and at the same time putting
on the engine.”

After this explanation they went up very high to practise vertical
turns. There were many other planes much higher than they, and
Armbruster called out:

“Kiwi, do you see that little group of tiny specks to the right? That’s
a crowd who are going off on a sight-seeing tour to some other planet.
Next time they go we’ll go with them, for it’s lots of fun. You fly on
and on through space, and the air turns blue and lavender and finally a
clear, yellowish white as you approach the other worlds. The pull of
gravity gets less and less until you feel as light as a feather and your
plane is rocked this way and that by the whirling eddies of air.


[Illustration]


“But now, Kiwi, we must get on with our flying practice.”

Time after time Kiwi got into spins whenever Armbruster’s instructions
as to the turns were not properly followed. But it was not long until he
had become accustomed to the actions of the plane in a tail-spin, and as
they were still very high he was able to pull them out.

Armbruster now felt that he had taught Kiwi enough of the art of flying
for him to fly alone and to feel perfectly confident. They had flown at
times when the air was very bumpy, and although at first it had
frightened Kiwi somewhat, he had soon learned to correct for the bumps
automatically.

Armbruster knew that after a little practice he could teach Kiwi to
loop, which was only a matter of diving the plane until it had attained
speed enough to carry itself over the top of the loop. He knew that Kiwi
would soon learn to keep enough rudder on to prevent him from falling
out of the loop sideways. All the other forms of acrobatics could only
be learned by practice after the fundamental things had been thoroughly
mastered.

As they landed, Armbruster said:

“Taxi the plane in, Kiwi, and we’ll see if Dad will give you a final
test before I send you off solo.”

Rejoining the group who had been watching them, Kiwi’s face was wreathed
in smiles.

Armbruster called out to the Skipper, “How about testing this pupil for
me, Captain?”

Dad shook his head as he said, “I’d rather some one else did. Let Jack
take him and give the final word.”

So Jack put on his helmet and goggles, climbed into the front seat and
called back to Kiwi:

“All right! Take me up for a ride.”

Kiwi took the plane off beautifully, circled both to the right and to
the left, put the plane into a spin and recovered from it, and amply
proved to Jack that he was fit to go up alone. As they came down Jack
called to him:

“You’ll do, Kiwi! Armbruster has done another good job!”

As the plane drew up to where Dad and Armbruster were standing, Jack
stopped the motor and said to Kiwi:

“As soon as the air gets a little quieter I should think you could take
it up alone.”

Here Armbruster cut in, “Don’t you think the boy does very well for the
few lessons he’s had?” And Jack agreed with him.

While other planes overhead swooped and turned against the blue sky,
they gave Kiwi his final instructions. Armbruster told him to take-off,
go to at least five hundred feet before he made any turn, fly around
until he felt perfectly comfortable, and then to shut off his motor and
make his landing; that he ought to make at least five landings before
they could pass on him as a finished pilot.

Then Dad said, “And don’t forget, Kiwi—don’t fly away and leave us, for
we want you back here.”

“I’m ready to fly now,” replied Kiwi, very excited. “Is it all right,
Dad?”

Permission was given, the engine was started, Kiwi’s cushions were
patted into place and his belt buckled.

Armbruster called out, cheerily, “Don’t forget my instructions, Kiwi,
and you’ll show them.”

As Kiwi taxied off by himself the little group cheered him on. Reaching
the middle of the field, he turned into the wind and found a second in
which to wave to those who were watching him. Then, without waiting
further, he pushed forward the throttle and his first solo flight was
on.

Cautiously but perfectly Kiwi took the plane off the ground. He felt a
tremendous elation as he found himself alone in the air at last, in full
command of a plane. Now no one was helping him. This bird of wood and
fabric and metal was his to command.

While Kiwi had been learning to fly he had been watching the birds,
which were present in great numbers, do their flying. Particularly he
had noticed some large black birds, not unlike crows, wheeling and
circling and coming to land amidst the gusty air close to the surface.
They always swung around into the wind when landing, and one of them—his
mind, no doubt, preoccupied by other matters—had flattened out too high
up and came down on his feet with quite a bump, and looked as startled
as Kiwi might have looked in a similar circumstance.

The little group on the ground saw Kiwi soar into the air, and each
lived again his own first solo. They forgot, for the time being, that no
harm could come to him, and hardly a word was spoken as they watched
with bated breath while the plane circled and turned as Kiwi tried out
his skill. No one in that group could help him now. He was “on his own.”

Then Kiwi decided that the time had come for him to attempt his first
landing unaided. He throttled back his motor to make the attempt. Now
was the test!

No strain ever quite equals that of a pupil’s first landing. No matter
who the pupil is, everyone within sight or hearing pauses tense until it
is over. The group stared, fascinated, as young Kiwi glided down,
flattened out a few inches above the surface, and settled down to a
perfect three-point landing.

Kiwi had done it!

A shout went up and they pounded the Skipper on the back as he watched,
almost unbelieving. Kiwi was a pilot! He had mounted into the air alone,
had mastered the air, and had landed beautifully. He was now one of
them—a flyer in his own right, a pilot in that quiet kingdom.

He made several more landings, and then as he taxied back to the group
Armbruster said:

“The name Kiwi doesn’t fit him now, but it will probably stick to him
forever.”


[Illustration]


It was not long before Dad and Jack and Kiwi became accustomed to this
carefree life and made many excursions off into the upper air in the
“Dauntless.”

The moon had always had a great fascination for Kiwi, and on one flight
with Armbruster and some of the others, they soared up to it and landed
on its barren surface. They climbed in and out of the deep hollows of
its dead volcanoes; they explored its caves and the rocky beds of its
dried-up rivers.

They went on numerous excursions to other planets, where sometimes they
landed and exchanged experiences with the strange inhabitants. The
flyers were looked upon as strange adventurers, for on none of these
other planets had the art of flying been developed. But always as they
floated down like a bit of fluff to their own kingdom, they were happy
to be back among their own kind.

And Kiwi began to feel that his place with them was now assured, that he
was one of them—a pilot with wings—a Kiwi in name only.


                                THE END


EDITOR’S NOTE

_For many weeks the newspapers in and about New York and in the Middle
West carried an advertisement and a request for information. It had been
inserted by order of the captain on one of the big trans-Atlantic
liners. He was holding in trust a silver cigarette case which he wished
to restore to the friends or relatives of Captain Malcolm McBride,
skipper of the plane “Dauntless,” which had completely disappeared while
on a non-stop flight from New York to India._


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[Illustration]


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[Illustration]


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 ● Transcriber’s Notes:
    ○ Missing or obscured punctuation was silently corrected.
    ○ Typographical errors were silently corrected.
    ○ Inconsistent spelling and hyphenation were made consistent only
      when a predominant form was found in this book.
    ○ Text that:
      was in italics is enclosed by underscores (_italics_);
      was in bold by is enclosed by “equal” signs (=bold=).