In answer to King’s upraised hand Lyle, in the front cockpit, lowered something over the side of the biplane—a bulky thing that seemed to tax her strength.
It was a five-gallon gasoline can, and by the way it hung in the wind at the end of the rope, it was a full can.
King Horn’s eyes leaped to an instrument beside his seat that he had not thus far consulted—the gasoline manifold installation, with two visible-type fuel gauges. They told him at a glance that one tank in the big wing above him was empty and the other had in it about two gallons of gas—enough for about three minutes more in the air.
The mechanics at the Grand Trunk Airway field had sent him away with almost empty tanks. Another hand touched his shoulder. He looked around. Mr. Winship had left his seat and come forward.
“I—that other machine reminds me that we were waiting for the gasoline tank wagon when—when the accident occurred,” he said.
“Thanks,” said King Horn, somewhat grimly. “Please go back and sit down. Keep your friends sitting down, too.”
He encountered Cross’ agitated eyes. “Th-that mechanic certainly t-told you the ship was all set,” the aviation editor stammered. “I—I remember now—-”
He glanced distrustfully over the side. The city looked much more solid and stony than it had before.
King Horn shook his head. “It’s up to me,” he said tersely. “I was too quick getting away before somebody blurted out my name.” He was already throttling down and heading the ship into the south wind, toward the bay. He adjusted the stabilizer control for a flat glide, with idling engines.
As he prepared, he was wishing that he had aboard no cargo of old men, too brittle-boned to stand a rough, forced landing and too likely to drown or to catch pneumonia if he picked the bay. A mere mishap for youth would be a certain tragedy for them. Unless⸺