“Would it, oh, but would it?” Hal Dane’s heart beat ice cold against his leather shirt. This same type motor had done its duty down there in the danger of the great Three-River Flood. It had risen from a tiny knoll, risen from a crumbling, flood-washed island. Even though over-burdened with human freight, it had risen almost straight into the air. But Hal Dane had been superman, then. Guided by superpower, he had hurled himself recklessly into the jaws of death to save life. In that time of thrilling awfulness, the great plane had answered to his every touch. Like some superhuman creation it had shot up from crumbling death, water death, swamp death.
But now, circumscribed by four man-made walls, wooden, spiritless things that made no real call to courage or feel of power—now would this great plane rise, respond to his will?
Not to rise straight up would mean death—a crashing, roaring piece of machinery battering against walls.
If only there had been a chance to try this tower out! But there had been no chance for anything, no chance to think, even.
With doom upon him, the young flyer slid into the cockpit of the squat, heavy plane.
Whir of motor, crazy tipping and swaying of the machine—then the thrill of power rushing into Hal Dane’s veins. She was rising. She was answering his prayer. She was superbird, four walls could not prison her.
With a rushing whirl of her now stiffening gyroscope wings, the great machine lifted herself swiftly, steadily; rose in that amazing space of four wooden tower walls scarce ten feet distance from her machinery on any side.
Straight up—then away over the great, shouting concourse whirred the plane. Hal Dane, superbirdman, rode high in the skies, he swooped, he darted in an ecstasy of freedom of the air.
Then wheeling, circling till he hung above the tower with its four walls. He held position for a long minute, then under control dropped slowly, down, down, straight into the maw of the tower.