The flare was growing dim and perilously near the ground as the Martin, with all switches cut, skimmed the fence and settled. The corn was nearly as high as the bottom wing. The bomber no more than hit the ground before darkness came as suddenly as though a light had been turned off in a room.
The ship wavered, and there was a rending crunch from the landing gear. Then a crash as the ship nosed up slowly and the front shell of the observers cockpit folded back until it loosened the instrument board.
“Hooray!”
It was Hinkley shouting.
“Jim, I never was so glad to get on the ground in my life!”
Broughton made a wry face. He was suddenly weak from the strain.
For a moment the two sat there motionless, not even bothering to unloosen their belts. Then Hinkley turned to look at Graves. That gentleman was unloosening his belt.
“We thought you might want to smoke a cigaret, so we landed,” said Hinkley.
Graves held up the frazzled butt of a cigar.
“I chewed it up from the time you got out there on the wing,” he replied. “We came pretty near trading a Martin for a pair of honest-to ⸺ wings, didn’t we?”