At mid-day, one of the students in advanced flying had gone up to give an exhibition in reverse controls, turns and spirals.
He was a marvelous flyer in spite of a certain bland recklessness that seemed to edge his every act. Now in the air he seemed to short-turn in his spirals, to be given to shooting into perilous climbs. He was that way in all his work, sliding through with a swagger carelessness. As he watched the pupil aviator now in the air, Hal’s mind went back to events of that very morning, how the fellow had gone slipshod through the tiresome routine of overhauling the engine of the machine he was to use in the noon flight.
Some god of luck must ride that fellow’s shoulder. For here he was up, flying a dirty motor that would have clogged on anybody else, yet gliding through dives and figure eights with the easy grace of a whirlwind.
A score of pupils and an instructor or two stood on the field below, heads bent back, watching the beautiful stalls and spins. Again he shot high into the air in a circling swoop. Then while everyone stared aloft, a little puff of flame darted out from the engine.
“It has back-fired—hot carbon showering from that dirty engine!” moaned Hal between white lips.
For a dazed second everyone stood paralyzed with horror while above them another flame shot out, darting towards the carburetor.
The next second the aviation field came alive. Rex Raynor leaped to a machine, a rope was hurled in after him, frenzied hands whirled the motor, shot the blocks from under the wheels.
Up into the sky with meteoric swiftness rose Raynor.
Below him, men stared upward, faces tensed with anguish as they watched his maneuvers. What could he do? What help could he be now?
With every moment it seemed that the burning plane must whirl downward and dash its lone occupant to death. Tongues of flame licked about it, reaching greedily for its vitals—the controls. The wings of the plane had been dipped in a fireproofing process, but now even these were smouldering.