A dozen or more icicles immediately crunched between
my teeth, pierced the roof of my mouth, and froze my 20
brain, while leaden drops of water percolated through it
and trickled down my spine.
"Keep grinning!" that unconscious self put in again.
The advice was useless. I couldn't have closed my mouth
had I wanted to. Finally by bowing my head I shut my 25
jaws. Oh, for that chin strap which was whacking my
face! It would have kept me warm. Despite the heat
through which we had traveled in reaching Hazlehurst
Field that morning, up here, a mile high, the air was cold.
I stole a sidelong glance at Francis from behind the 30
heavy goggles which some friendly stranger had fitted over
my helmet. Francis was not looking at me.
Instead of watching and appraising me, as I had thought
he was half turned round, gazing back along the fuselage
or body, of our craft, for what reason I do not know.
I turned in my seat and looked back at the tail. Not
seeing anything unusual, I sat back again. And there was 5
Francis with his head thrown back, gazing at the sky. His
hands and feet were not touching the controls.
Every time we struck an air pocket I shuddered. For
ten minutes, minutes which seemed hours, I huddled
and shrank and shuddered. That was about all there 10
appeared to be in the flight for me—huddles, shrinks,
and shudders.
That dog kennel of a barn gave me much to think about.
The wind was dead against us. Our speedometer registered
ninety miles an hour—and the wind pushing us 15
back at the rate of forty miles left us fifty miles an hour
speed. It seemed like fifty feet to me, until I saw off in
the distance ahead the silvery haze that hangs over New
York like a mantle of mist. A moment later we made out
Long Island Sound, laid out with all its little bays and harbors 20
just like a pattern of white paper fallen on the extreme
edge of a Persian carpet. There were a few specks on it,
and from them whisps of smoke drifted up, many times
smaller than pipe smoke.
Bump! A slight jar. I looked at Francis. He was 25
gazing ahead unconcernedly.
Air pockets. We had dropped twenty feet on two
separate occasions within the space of a moment. Great!
The machine was still intact. Good old machine! Nice
old craft! . . . I felt like patting it on the nose and stroking 30
its sleek fabric back—that is, if it remained constant.
If ever I craved constancy in anything, it was then.