“I’m scared,” Barbara whispered. Sally made no reply. Truth was, her stomach was pumping in a strange way. She saw the boy from Kentucky gulp twice. That didn’t help any.
“We’re about there,” the instructor announced. “If your stomachs don’t feel good, forget it. That’s the way mine feels right now, and I’ve jumped three hundred times.
“Now remember,” he added, “when you slide off, keep looking up. That way your chin doesn’t hook on the parachute straps.
“Now,” he said in a strong, clear voice, “we’re here. See that green light? That’s the signal. Don’t be nervous. Your parachutes have been properly rigged. I watched it done. Don’t forget, I’ll be right behind you.”
Before they went up, they had been given numbers. Barbara’s number was seven, Sally’s eight. That meant that, except for the instructor, they would be last. Sally did not know whether this was good or bad. For Barbara to go first would be terrible. But would watching the others disappear wear away her slender thread of courage? She could only hope that it would not.
“Action stations,” the instructor snapped. Number one, the big fellow raised on a cattle ranch, took his place, dangling his feet over the hole. With his arms hanging straight down, he looked up.
“Number one!” The big fellow vanished into the thin air below. “Number two!” One more vanished. Sally’s throat went dry. “Number three!” There they went. “Number four!” Oppressive silence followed. Sally gasped. Had something gone wrong? Then she remembered they were to go down by fours, with a space between each group. “Two fast sticks,” they called it. She felt quite like a stick just then.
Unconsciously, she began to count—one, two, three, four. She mopped her brow. She dared not look at Barbara. “Five, six, seven.” She had reached fifteen when the instructor took up the counting once more. “Number five.” One more man vanished.
“Get ready,” Sally whispered. On Barbara’s face was a look of do-or-die.
“Number six.” The last boy vanished.