The flying chance

by Gordon McCreagh

The Flying Chance

By Gordon McCreagh

I.

The commandant of the Philadelphia navy-yard looked up from the sheaf of papers which bore the superscription of the Bureau of Naval Affairs, Washington, at the young man who stood at attention before his desk.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Rankin,” he said simply.

The brown, alert face showed no surprise. Ensign Rankin belonged to those men who cannot afford to be easily shaken from their balance, but his passionate argument was already on his lips.

“But why?” he cried. “Why? I passed in everything else. My sense of balance was perfect. My nerve reactions were A No. 1. My blood pressure, hearing, everything! Only those paltry two points I fell short in.”

Official dignity relaxed just a trifle before the bitterness of the young man’s disappointment.

“I’m sorry,” the commandant said again. “But this flying business is dangerous enough as it is without our adding to it by overlooking the slightest imperfection in the human machine. The service requires a full twenty in eyesight, and your test measures up only eighteen. Therefore you have been judged ‘unfit for aviation.’”