“Now boys, be sure and give us a good treat,” Jenkins, a stout, harassed, badge-encrusted gentleman instructed, as he bustled up to the shack wherein the partners had come together again.
“You’ll get it,” returned Burt Minster grimly.
“Two of them,” promised Del O’Connell, buckling the harness of his ’chute about him, and taking a final glance at the dangling rip-cord and the ring attached to it.
“I’ll make it worth your while,” the official declared, and dashed away.
At the plane the three men waited, while space for a takeoff in the infield was cleared of spectators. Jim Tyler warmed up his motor, and then, throttling down, left the cockpit and confronted his partners.
“If you’re set on going through with this fool thing I suppose I’ll have to stand by,” he said briefly. “Where are you jumping from—wing or cockpit?”
“Since we’re not pulling the rip-cords at once we might as well jump from the cockpit,” said O’Connell. “You can signal to us better from there and it will look more spectacular.”
“That suits me,” replied Burt Minster curtly.
“I won’t be able to get this bus up over six or seven thousand feet with the weight of three men in her,” Jim calculated. “Suppose we make it five thousand, to be sure?”
“A mile is plenty, since it’s going to be a sprint,” Del O’Connell said, with a chuckle. “Though of course,” he added, looking sideways at Minster, “one of us may not do much sprinting.”