“Jump!” Flash shouted again as his companion did not obey.
Doyle braced himself against the floor boards.
“I’m sticking,” he said. “Stop ’em if you can, Flash!”
The monoplane roared down the field straight toward the car, rapidly gathering speed for the take-off. In another instant its wheels would leave the ground.
Flash pressed the accelerator pedal to the floor. The car fairly leaped ahead.
Too late Rascomb saw what the cameramen meant to do. He shouted and swerved the plane. But he could not act quickly enough to avert a crash. The car smashed into the plane’s left wing with terrific impact.
Flash was thrown violently against the windshield. For several minutes he lay in a semi-daze. Then his mind cleared and he shook himself free from the mass of twisted steel.
Doyle was lying limp on the seat, his chin slumped on his chest. As Flash touched him, his eyes opened.
“Stop ’em,” he mumbled. “Stop ’em if you can.”
Relieved that Doyle seemed only stunned, Flash seized the revolver which had fallen to the car seat. Forcing open the battered door, he climbed from the wreckage.