Hastily handing the farmer a banknote, he began pounding at the door of a room where a dim light shone.
“What you want?” grumbled a voice, as the door opened.
“A plane to Chicago. Special Air Mail. An emergency. Plane down in a pasture five miles back.”
The man glanced at the mail sack, at Curlie’s uniform, then said cheerily:
“Righto! Warm one up at once. Good bus. Want the stick?”
“You better come. Take her back. I can’t.”
“Right!”
A moment later a powerful motor began a low rumble. The rumble increased to a roar, then died down again. Three times this was repeated. Then Curlie climbed aboard a two-seater.
“Time for three winks,” he thought, as he strapped himself in.
Long hours had passed since he had left his last airport. Excitement and mental struggle had tired him. Accustomed as he was to being aloft, he fell asleep at once and remained so until the bump-bump of his plane, landing on the city field, awoke him.