That done, he pushed the lever governing the horizontal rudder forward. The vertical lever he left upright.
Swiftly he thought over Holton’s instructions. There was nothing more to be done, and, with a last look at the engine, which was running perfectly, he climbed into the seat.
For a second he sat there motionless. It must be confessed that his pulse beat rapidly, and he felt an odd, unpleasant tightening at his throat as he realized what he was about to attempt.
Then the thought of Holton, slowly smothering in that air-tight room, made him press his lips tightly together as his left hand reached out and closed over the steering lever. The propeller in front of him was revolving swiftly with a whirring sound, and it seemed as though he could feel the aëroplane tugging gently at the anchoring rope, as if it were anxious to be off.
“Loosen the rope, Brad, and give me a good, running shove!” Merriwell said quietly.
The Texan stifled with an effort an almost irresistible impulse to drag his chum off the seat and prevent him forcibly from going to what he considered almost certain death. Then he made a last appeal.
“Dick, you ought not to do this,” he said, in a low voice. “It’s madness!”
“I must, old fellow,” Merriwell returned quietly.
Somehow the confidence in Merriwell’s voice seemed to put heart into the big Texan.
Turning, he walked to the rear of the machine and slipped the hook of the anchor rope out of the ring. Then he took a good hold of the framework and ran forward, pushing the aëroplane before him.