The crowd massed again, followed his progress with anxious eyes. How was he going to make it? Would his helpless, half-fainting burden swing against building or tree tops, would he be ground-dragged? There was the lake. Would he risk a water landing?
Fuz and Hal, eyes strained upward, shoulder to shoulder in the crowd, seemed to feel their hearts beat as one.
“If only he could drop us word what he wants us to do,” moaned Fuz. “Needs his radio, or something in the sky—”
“He could telegraph us,” said Hal, “if—”
“If he had that old dot-and-dash system we used to hammer to each other on water pipes—only he’s got nothing to hammer—Jumping Jerusalem!” shrieked Fuz. “He’s downing come—I mean, come downing—oh-h-h!” and excitement mixed Fuz’s words for him in the old childish manner.
And down Raynor came. With no system of ground communication on his boat, he had to come as best he could and trust to luck.
Nearer down swung the roped burden. Folks could see now why the boy had never jumped from the death-trap of the burning plane—his parachute pack hung in scorched shreds. Sparks must have done for him there first of all.
Sensing a ground-drag, Raynor rose a bit, then lowered, and with masterly hand held the ship to steady placement in air, while men reached upward to receive the boy. Someone had had presence of mind to stand by with opened knife—a slash at the rope and the boy was free. They laid him out, insensible, but with life still in him—a marvel, after the danger he had incurred.
Raynor landed farther out, taxied in. He crawled from his ship with knees trembling beneath him. The strain on him had been terrific.
Now that it was all over, Hal found his own limbs quivering. This thing had unnerved him—and others too. All about him he saw men with lips still white from the strain, bodies relaxed, huddling against some support.