Within five minutes of the commandant’s decision he was disobeying for the second time that day his orders to confine himself to the yard. Disobeying with speed and violence, for he was shooting down the long concrete road which led to the main gate like a dark-red shell.
Senior Lieutenant Tracy, the officer of the watch, became aware of the thing hurtling down upon him, and he jumped angrily aside. What fool was breaking yard regulations like that? He recognized Rankin as he whizzed past, and remembered the commandant’s order. He called wildly after him, but Rankin never swerved an inch. Bent low over the wheel, he fired himself at the gate. Officers’ cars, of course, were never questioned. The gate opened with profane promptness, and Rankin whirled out of his prison. Ten minutes later he was roaring down the road which pointed like a long, straight tape line to Atlantic City.
IV.
At Atlantic City, on the beach, opposite to the newest ten-million-dollar hotel, stood a huge tent of unusual shape, guyed down and double guyed with wire cable for security. Its occupant and owner was viewing with critical satisfaction the beautiful, wide-winged flying-boat which balanced so gracefully on its truck, stretching from one far canvas wall right across to the other, when he was suddenly overwhelmed by a breathless young man in a dusty uniform who demanded fiercely:
“Jim, I want you to give me your bus right away.”
This Jim was another of those men whose nerves do not start at sudden and unexpected happenings.
“Sure,” he said without hesitation. “Want to go joy riding?” And he held out his hand.
“No, no, you don’t understand,” the other panted. “I want you to give it to me—to wreck!”
Jim’s voice became serious, though the slow smile never left his face. He seated himself methodically on a tool-box.
“Button off the power, Jack; come to earth and tell us all about it,” he said quietly.