The railroad skimmed the east end of the Flint hills and when the lights of Macon showed in the distance Tim knew he was around the worst barrier. The dreaded hills now lay to his left and behind.
He glanced at his watch. He was making good time. With no unforeseen emergencies he would be in Atkinson by eleven.
The sky had lightened somewhat and Tim now had a ceiling of 1,000 feet. With a greater margin of safety, he opened the throttle wide and the Good News bored into the night.
In the dim light of the instrument board Tim could see the needle on the air speed indicator hovering near the 200-mile an hour mark. He was making more than three miles a minute. That was time! It was faster than Tim had ever traveled.
Then the indicator crept on up. Two hundred and five and then it wavered at two hundred and ten. The motor was not turning over any faster than a minute or two before so Tim knew he must have picked up a good tail wind.
Let’er go! The sooner he reached Atkinson the sooner he would be on the last lap of his trip to Auburn and the nearer the completion of his plans for the salvation of the village. On he roared through the night and the lights of small towns were little more than blurs in a magic carpet.
Far ahead the lights of Atkinson reflected against the clouds and four minutes later Tim was throttling down the motor preparatory to gliding into the airport.
For the first time since leaving Fort Armstrong the load of high explosive bombs which he had obtained at the army post worried him.
Supposing he struck a mud puddle and nosed over? One blinding, shattering blast and it would be all over. So much depended on the success of his landing that he dared not think of failure.
The flood lights came on and bathed the field in a chilling blue brilliance. Tim cut his motor and sidled down, killing speed every second. He glanced at his watch. Ten fifty-five; five minutes to the good.