Plane Jane

By Frederick C. Davis
Author of “Haunted Hangars,” “Ordeal By Air,” etc.
Don’t go wonderin’ if I’m a expert on the subject, but ain’t there a kind of girl that looks her prettiest when she’s wearin’ a kitchen dress and rollin’ out biscuits? And ain’t there another sort of girl who transforms herself into the most beautiful when she appears in a filmy evenin’ gown and waits for you to waft her out into the moonlight? Then there’s another that becomes the one and only when she is wool from head to toe and cuddlin’ beside you on a toboggan. And there’s one who is a shade above Venus when she comes slashin’ out of the surf glistenin’ and lithe and fresh.
Jane Alton wasn’t any of these kinds, but, oh, what a dream she was in a flyin’ suit! Jane was born to ornament the air. With a stick in her hand and flyin’ joy in her eyes, she was an angel—and, of course, bein’ an angel, she belonged in the sky. She put herself there every chance she got!
It was a mornin’ full of smooth air and high visibility when Jane came rompin’ around the hangars, shinin’ leather all over and, seein’ us, smiled brighter ’n the sun and ran straight for our plane.
Ned Knight was in the fore cubby, jazzin’ the motor, ready for a take-off. He grinned and remarked over his shoulder:
“Benny, ol’ nut-twister, here’s where you lose your seat, back there. Jane’s all set to take another trip to her home port, Heaven, and there’s no use tryin’ to stop her. Better start gettin’ out.”
I’d already begun startin’, and I was all the way out when Jane came up laughin’.
“Thank you, you ol’ darlin’,” she said to me, and I ain’t so old, either. “I can’t wait another minute to get up into all that glorious sky. Ned, would you mind changin’ back to Benny’s seat?”
“What!” barked Ned. “Listen, Jane. I’m takin’ this little Alton up for a check-ride. Your Dad is waitin’ for the data on it. Just this time won’t you ride in back, just this once, and lemme—”
“Ned Knight,” came back Jane, “am I not the holder of a pilot’s license?”