Graves, his face white but his smile firm, settled back in his seat as Jim pressed the starter on the left hand motor. It caught.
Several men came running over the brow of the hill as Jim turned up the left hand motor to equal the right. The thousand revolutions on the right hand motor had not been sufficient to move and thus swing the ship, but just enough to hold it steady. It started slowly. As soon as it had a little momentum Hinkley cut the switches, and at the same time Jim jerked the throttle back. A loud report, and a brief miss was the reward of their efforts. Graves looked back approvingly, and then turned to watch the group of men nearing the plane.
The ship almost stopped, and had started to swing, before the grinning flyers caught the left hand motor again. Its progress up the slope was spasmodic, and it would not have been a surety to the most expert of observers that the left hand motor was not suffering from a plugged gas line or an intermittent short circuit in the ignition. With the walking men close alongside, Jim brought the Martin to the top of the hill. There was just barely clearance enough for the wings.
As soon as the wheels were slightly over the top, enough so that the Bomber could not roll backwards, he turned off the gas. Soon the motors began to spit and miss, and then the propellers stopped. Broughton snapped off the switches.
“Now for the fun,” remarked Larry Hinkley.
V.
It was a miscellaneous collection of men who stood around the ship. Three of them were very well dressed and looked like business men. Others, mostly in flannel shirts, were slim, hard-faced, youngish fellows. Several were foreigners. The rougher-looking element paid most attention to the great ship, but it was a noticeable fact that all of them spent more time appraising the flyers than they did in satisfying their curiosity regarding the bomber.
“How do you do, gentlemen, and just where are we?” inquired Graves calmly as he removed his coveralls.
There was a few seconds pause as everybody took in his uniform. It was garnished with several rows of ribbons across the front of the blouse, the flyers noticed.
“This is in Farran County—nearest town Elm Hill,” returned a burly, hard-faced man who was wearing a coat over his flannel shirt, and loosely tied necktie. He was somewhat older than any one else there except the three men who were dressed so meticulously.