Dick had secured an option on a large tract of land belonging to Peter Langley, a strange old man, who lived at his small silver mine in Peru. He had given little thought to this strip of land that he owned, for it had been considered waste until the airplane brought about a new use for it.
With the option settled, Bennett Graham finally put up money for transport planes and agreed to stand back of Dick’s venture until success was certain.
As Dick had been a lucky pilot, he had no difficulty in getting contracts for his airplane transportation service. Everything looked good. Success was certain.
Then had come the crash!
Dick had gone over his plane thoroughly before starting out on an important trip. The plane was in order, the engine running true. Then half an hour later Dick had crashed.
At the hospital his wife and daughters looked on his still form and were given no hope of his recovery. “And if he lives, he’ll be a cripple for the rest of his life,” the doctors had predicted. “A wheel chair is all he can hope for.”
“Pray, Allan, pray that Dad will die,” Terry whispered with a sob as Allan put his arm tenderly about her. “Death would be better, far better, than a broken body. He mustn’t live! I could never bear to see Dad in a wheel chair!”
Allan caught her meaning. He could understand. A flyer who had piloted a plane through the sky, had shot up above the clouds and been alone in the heavens, would never be happy in a wheel chair. Looking down at the death-like face of his friend, Dick Mapes, Allan too prayed that he might die.
But Dick Mapes did not die. His recovery was like a miracle, so the doctors said, and while he stormed at the wheel chair, even that was only to be for a little while. A famous specialist gave him promise of being able to walk and get back to flying within a few years.
Allan Graham and Syd Ames carried on the business as well as they could, but new contracts did not come as rapidly as when Dick was in charge.