Del O’Connell cleared his throat—and cleared it again. Finally he muttered:
“That stuff about nerve, Burt—I’m a liar of the first water. Nerve? You’re nothing else.”
“I saw what you were doing, yourself,” mumbled Burt Minster, equally shamefaced and uncomfortable. “That certainly took guts, Del.”
“I’m glad to be out of that mess,” said Del fervently. “Look! Here comes Jim!”
Jim it was, and he was not above but below them. He was climbing fast, and it was plain to see that he had complete control of the ship. As they craned their necks toward the ascending plane he banked sharply, and went circling under them, waving his hand toward the tail. Nothing but a few tatters of silk and several shroud lines trailed from the control surfaces of the tail assembly. Jim had dived his encumbrance into ribbons.
With the plane whistling around them, they were wafted downward almost directly over the fair grounds. A gentle wind was drifting them toward it, for Jim had calculated well before signaling for the jump. The earth was coming upward now with greater speed, as their horizon drew in upon them. No longer could they survey half the county.
Legs dangling, they waited. Past the eastern end of the racetrack they drifted, and then, suddenly, the ground thudded up against their feet, and down they went in a heap together. The parachute slipped sideways, and lay billowing on the ground.
“We finished together, Del. It’s a dead heat,” said Burt Minster, climbing to his feet and lifting the smaller man with him.
“Dead enough,” answered Del O’Connell emphatically. “But I’ve a hunch this last little stunt has broken our run of bad luck, Burt. See! Here comes Jenkins on the run, and I’m crashed if he hasn’t got his checkbook in his hand!”
THE END