“Sure.” Bob gave him a hand, the straps were re-adjusted, and the younger boy crawled back to his seat, attached his own parachute, and was finally ready. By that time the shore was lined with spectators.
“All ready. Contact,” Caldwell shouted. Jim opened the throttle, and they were off in a jiffy. They could see the people waving and cheering as they came about a few feet above the lake. Then Her Highness zoomed, high and handsome and the town was left behind.
Because of the rising wind the return trip was not so smooth. They ran into bumps and pockets, and the force of the approaching storm drove hard behind them, pushing them forward swiftly. Jim zoomed to ten thousand feet in an effort to get above the troubled air, but even at that altitude there was no improvement. Occasionally he took a second to glance at his passenger, but Mr. Fenton was facing it bravely, although his eyes showed that he was a bit anxious. The young pilot took the speaking tube, signaled to the boy in the back, and almost instantly there was a red flash on the dial board, which meant Bob was paying attention.
“Better put your cover over, old man.”
“Got her up,” came the answer. “I’m snug as a bug in a rug. Want to know the readings back here?”
“Yes.” Bob read them off while Jim compared them with the records on his own control board, and when it was finished, he called.
“All correct.”
“You covered up?” Bob demanded.
“Going to fix it now. So long. Meet you on the ice.”
“You needn’t. I’m not a skate,” came the chuckling response. Then Jim drew the storm cover over the cock-pit, switched on extra lights, and the plane raced forward, guided entirely by compass, and the sensitive instruments which kept him fully informed as to how high they were and how fast they were going.