“It’s Tommy,” he whispered. “McDowell’s slashed his chute. If he ever steps over the side he’s gone.”
Tim’s face whitened at Ralph’s alarming words. Tommy’s chute slashed! He glanced aloft. The planes were almost up to 2,000 feet. In a few more minutes they would be rushing headlong toward each other and Tommy would step over the side to hurl like a falling star to the ground. Tim’s eyes closed to shut out the image which flashed across his mind.
Prentiss reached his side.
“What’s happened?”
“I don’t know exactly,” said Tim, “but McDowell’s slashed Tommy’s chute with a knife. Take care of Ralph. I’m going up to stop Tommy.”
“Take him into my office,” directed Carl Hunter, who had arrived on the run and overheard Tim’s words.
Prentiss gathered Ralph in his arms and stalked toward the administration building while Tim and Hunter ran down the ramp.
Tim scanned the field. It would be impossible to get the fast Jupiter which the News owned or the American Ace which he and Ralph operated out of their hangars. He turned toward the other planes on the field. It would take a fast ship to get up there in time to stop the crash of the two planes. His eyes rested on McDowell’s own monoplane. It was trim and fast and the 300 horsepower motor was capable of pulling it almost vertically skyward.
“I’ll take McDowell’s plane,” he told Hunter. The field manager gave him a hand and between them they whipped the ship around and headed it toward the open field.
Tim climbed inside, stumbled over the smashed boards which had hidden the secret compartment, and sat down in the pilot’s seat. The controls were slightly different from the ships he had been accustomed to flying but he knew he could handle the plane without trouble. He glanced at the gas gauge. The tank was a quarter full.