“Speak for yourself,” growled the other man. “You’ll probably starve to death before you get to the ground.”
“Remember, when I turn and put up five fingers, get ready,” Tyler broke in hastily. “And when I nod, jump! One from each side. And jump hard, so you’ll clear the tail.”
“Right,” assented Del O’Connell eagerly, and Burt Minster nodded agreement.
The infield was clear at last. With a final glance at the fastenings of their harness and the rip-cords that would release the parachutes, the two men silently climbed into the rear cockpit. They wedged themselves into the narrow seat. Then both turned automatically and studied the direction and force of the wind, as revealed by the whipping flags on the grandstand.
Jim Tyler gave the ship the throttle. Bouncing and lurching, it charged into the wind, the propeller flickering as it cut the air and flung it back upon the tense faces of pilot and ’chute jumpers. Far across the infield the plane raced. Finally the wings took the burden from the rubber-tired wheels. The ship, with a final jolt, parted company with the ground, hung poised above the grass, and began its upward climb.
Though it was an old story to them, the two men in the rear cockpit looked downward, each upon his side, and the plane climbed in great circles above the fair ground below. The green of the countryside prevailed, but the brown of the oval racetrack cut through it, and just outside this ellipse was a speckled band of many indistinguishable colors that is the indication of people in masses. Beyond that, behind the cigar-box grandstand, stretched a tightly packed section of black and gray-black, where the automobiles of the crowd were parked. Booths and buildings, gay with bunting, displayed their tiny square outlines in regular patterns around the ground.
And then, as the plane rose higher, the fair grounds contracted until they were a mere detail of the landscape below—the great green and brown squares and oblongs, with larger irregular patches of woodland, interspersed here and there by tracts of well-watered pasture land, of a lush green. Across it all, as if dividing all the world into two parts, ran the almost straight course of the Baychester river.
Del O’Connell and Burt Minster at just the same time turned their attention from the earth to the back of Jim Tyler’s head. They were approaching their mark and both sensed it, although there was no altimeter in their compartment.
The motor labored on, and both men thrust feet out straight, and moved shoulders tentatively, as if to drive away any incipient stiffness that might hinder action in that one swift leap into space. Both were entirely at home in the air, as seamen are at home on the water, but neither had ever gone out, deserting their craft for the impalpable element in which it swam.
Suddenly Jim Tyler turned a grim face toward the rear cockpit and raised his left hand, with fingers outstretched. Five thousand! For an instant little Del O’Connell and big Burt Minster turned and looked at each other. Determination was imprinted in the lines of both countenances, and together they squirmed to their feet in that cramped compartment, standing full in the buffeting stream of air flung back by the whirling propeller. Del O’Connell, with an agile twist, got one foot up on the rim of the cockpit and gripped the edge with both his hands. His head turned forward, and his eyes fixed themselves on the stern face of the pilot.