Caught in a swirl of air currents, Hal Dane and his craft were hurled this way and that like some toy shot from a giant’s hand. Watchers below held their breath.
Although a hundred feet and more intervened between them, those on the ground could see that the boy in the air was exerting every ounce of craftsmanship in his battle with the wind. He banked to the right, now dipped and rose, as though striving to ride the twist of air currents flowing about him, instead of drifting helplessly in their battering clutch. At times the wind ship seemed to whirl completely around, yet mostly it was held to an even keel.
Then the heavens opened and the rain came down in torrents; preluded by lightning and thunder, a cold blast swept down the valley with something of the fury of a small cyclone. Caught in this tempest, the crude plane bucked and went rearing upward like an affrighted horse.
“There goes the last of Grandma Harrison’s sheets,” roared Uncle Tel, hardly conscious of what he was saying and charging through the crowd as though he, on his rheumatic old limbs, would keep up with that flying white in the sky above.
“There goes my boy!” thought Mary Dane. It was a silent prayer.
Higher than it had ever gone before surged the wind bird. Storm, darkness, and rain seemed to cut it off from men’s sight.
The crowd began to run down the valley, letting the push of the wind guide them in the direction the aircraft must surely be following also. Clinging wet garments and the rain torrent made progress heartbreakingly slow.
Fuz McGinnis turned and began a stumbling progress against the wind back towards the starting point at Hogback. After a while he reappeared, charging along over the roadless, stony valley in his grotesquely inadequate looking Yellow Spider. Into it he somehow crowded Mrs. Dane and Uncle Tel. Others turned back and went for their cars. Raynor caught a ride with someone. Quite a procession went skidding and lumbering through the rain-washed valley.
Then, as quickly as it had come, the summer storm cleared. The sun even came out.
Something white showed up, flapping dismally in a distant tree top. It must be the remains of the wind bird. It—it couldn’t be anything else.