In the cool, smooth morning air he felt some of his confidence return, and when he felt his way down across the fence at a mere seventy-five miles an hour he was sure he was going to make the field. He dared a skid to kill more speed, after he had leveled off and, although he bounced, the ship came to earth safely and stopped rolling with a bare twenty-five feet to spare.
Five times he landed, and three times he made it on the first try. He still felt strange in it, and there was uncertainty in each landing. But he had self-confidence in the air, and there was no doubt now that eventually he’d be a capable De Haviland man even on that tiny field.
He decided to go high, and bank and sideslip and stall around a bit to get more accustomed to his ship. It was a thrill to feel the excess power in that motor. The air was pleasant to his perspiring face as it swept by him. He took in the view, avidly. McMullen, a small splotch on the ground, its paved streets white ribbons with bugs crawling on them. Fields dotted with patches of mesquite, the airdrome a tiny square seeming to be within a stone’s throw of the town, really four miles away.
At four thousand feet he was directly over the field, and started banking more and more steeply to get the feel of the ship. He did figure eights, stalled it, wingturned. And with each moment his touch grew more sure, his heart lighter. That gnawing doubt about his ability vanished slowly but surely.
Suddenly he looked north, and it was a shock to see another D.H. curving toward him. It was Dumpy Scarth and Jack Lee, he thought. The ship came around, diving slightly for his tail. In a moment it had taken position, fifty feet behind and slightly above him.
“He wants a dogfight!” Moran thought. Well, he wouldn’t get it. He, Moran, didn’t know enough about D.H.s yet—
“⸺ if I’ll funk it!” he told himself savagely. “Even if he does show me up.”
Mock combat was a favorite diversion—good practise. The point was to get behind and above one’s opponent, on his tail, and stay there.
Moran threw his ship into a diving bank, whipping it around heavily. He twisted and turned in wild abandon. He was high enough to be safe. Diving, zooming, going into vertical banks, he tried everything he dared, but Dumpy rode his tail serenely.
It became almost a battle in Moran’s mind. ⸺, how he’d like to show up that little ⸺, and he couldn’t even shake Dumpy off, much less get position himself. Down below he caught a brief glimpse of mechanics and officers watching, and suddenly his heavy jaw set. He’d shake Dumpy off, anyhow, D.H. or no D.H.