<h2 id="c3"><span class="sc">Chapter III</span> <br/><span class="small">INTO THE AIR</span></h2>
<p>The lights of a car swung round the hemlocks,
then levelled directly on the field as
the automobile sped down the stretch of lawn
between the stables and the cornfield.</p>
<p>“Better get off, Bill! They’ll get us sure!”
Charlie’s treble shrieked into the receivers
clamped to Bill’s ears.</p>
<p>“No, they won’t! And for the love of
Mike, Charlie, don’t shout like that!”</p>
<p>“Well, what’s to stop them?”</p>
<p>“That!” said Bill briefly.</p>
<p>The speeding motor car bucked like a live
thing—described a half circling dive in the
air and crashed down sideways to its former
course. The headlights snapped out and both
lads felt the tremor of a dull explosion.</p>
<div class="pb" id="Page_42">42</div>
<p>“Jiminy! Somebody got hurt!” cried
young Evans.</p>
<p>“Hope so. That, as the story-books say,
was my intention.”</p>
<p>“But what—what made it happen?”</p>
<p>“Remember when I left you by the bushes
and you went through the gunman’s pockets?”</p>
<p>“Sure.”</p>
<p>“Well, just about then I was stringing a
wire between the old hitching post and the
horse trough. Looks to me as if the wire
held. Oh, blazes!” he broke off—“here
comes another car! Hadn’t counted on a
fleet of them! Reckon you were right,
Charles. We should have got going sooner.”</p>
<p>While he talked, Bill swung the plane into
the wind.</p>
<p>“I thought they might stop at the wreck,”
sighed Charlie. “Coldblooded, I call it. Shall
I shoot?”</p>
<div class="pb" id="Page_43">43</div>
<p>“Their job’s to stop us. Gosh, no, you’d
be wasting ammunition—never hit within
forty feet of them with all this jouncing.”</p>
<p>The amphibian was gathering speed, rolling
lightly over the turf, but, leaping and
bouncing, the motor car drew closer. It came
alongside the moving plane, not more than
five yards off its starboard wing. Two men
hung to the running board, their guns spurting
fire.</p>
<p>“Duck!” yelled Bill.</p>
<p>He deliberately leaned over the cockpit’s
side and fired his automatic at the automobile.
He saw the big machine swerve wildly, fall
behind and topple over.</p>
<p>“Tit for tat.” Bill lifted his plane prettily
off the ground. “That’s one for you, Charlie.
I caught ’em in the near tire.”</p>
<p>“Two to one, you mean. And their cars
are in a lot worse shape than mine.”</p>
<div class="pb" id="Page_44">44</div>
<p>The engine was beating a steady tatoo. Bill
opened her up wide and pulled back on the
stick. Almost immediately they were in fog.
But he was no novice at the gentle art of piloting
an airplane. He had his air sense, flying
sense, and two instruments on the lighted dial-board
to guide him. The level glasses helped
a lot. His eyes went to the angle-of-climb
indicator, the bank indicator. He held the
amphibian in a steady climb for altitude.</p>
<p>The air was rough. White clouds of fog
obscured the wing lights at times. At other
times it was thinner. The engine was roaring
steadily, but Bill knew the danger of taking
off and climbing directly into a change
of temperature. He sat tight.</p>
<p>For about four minutes they climbed, in a
wide circle. And then there came a break
in the fog. A slice of the moon showed to
the southward. It was smothered by another
layer of fog almost instantly. The altimeter
showed eighteen hundred feet. Charlie’s
voice sounded through the receivers of the
phone-set.</p>
<p>“Are you lost, Bill?” His voice sounded
scared.</p>
<div class="pb" id="Page_45">45</div>
<p>“Not yet,” reassured his friend. “I’m
looking for something—had to gain altitude
to put those guys off our track, if they happened
to have an airbus handy.”</p>
<p>Bill dropped the plane into the heavier fog
below. Still flying in wide spirals, he came
out of it with the altimeter needle pointing
to four hundred feet.</p>
<p>“There she is!”</p>
<p>Almost directly below them the bright
beam of a flashing light circled round and
round, cutting the night in a broad swath.</p>
<p>“What is it?” asked Charlie.</p>
<p>“The New Canaan airbeacon on Ponus
Ridge. We take our bearings from that
light.”</p>
<p>“Where do we go from here?”</p>
<p>“Hartford, Worcester, Lowell, Portland
and on up the Maine coast.”</p>
<p>“Any idea of the distance?”</p>
<div class="pb" id="Page_46">46</div>
<p>“We’re a couple of hundred miles from
Lowell, and Portland is a good hundred and
twenty-five from that place. From there up
to Washington County and Twin Heads Harbor
is between a hundred and fifty to a
hundred and seventy-five farther. Say about
five hundred miles altogether. That’s guess-work.
It’s probably farther.”</p>
<p>He banked the plane, swung it around in
a semi-circle and levelled off, headed into the
northeast.</p>
<p>“How long will it take us?” Bill heard a
half-stifled yawn at the end of Charlie’s question.</p>
<p>“Well, it’s going on for three now. If
this breeze on our tail stiffens, we ought to
make your Dad’s house in less than five hours—say
somewhere between seven-thirty and
eight o’clock, if we’re lucky.”</p>
<p>“Too bad we have to get there in broad
daylight. Dad won’t like that.”</p>
<p>“Maybe not. But he’s lucky we’re getting
there at all.”</p>
<p>“I’ll say he is,” yawned Charlie.</p>
<div class="pb" id="Page_47">47</div>
<p>“Say, kid, you’d better take a nap. Take
down your seat and curl up on the decking.
You’ll find a couple of blankets stowed behind
the bulkhead aft.”</p>
<p>“I guess that’s the best thing to do,” the
youngster said sleepily.</p>
<p>“I know it is,” said Bill. “Keep that phone
gear on your head, though. I’ve got to wake
you before we get there. You’ll have to point
out the house.”</p>
<p>“Sure. Nighty-night.”</p>
<p>“Good night and sweet dreams.”</p>
<div class="pb" id="Page_48">48</div>
<p>Bill nosed up to six hundred feet. Above
him, the clouds of swirling fog seemed less
dense. His course led inland on a slant from
the shore. New Canaan lies up in the Ridge
Country, five or six miles back from Long
Island Sound. With every mile he put between
the plane and that body of water, the
air, both below and above him became
clearer and less bumpy. By the time the amphibian
was flying over Hartford, three-quarters
of an hour later, all signs of fog and
storm had disappeared. Moonlight flooded
the earth and the visibility was almost as good
as on a clear day.</p>
<p>It was past five o’clock by his wristwatch
and broad daylight when the amphibian,
speeding at the same altitude, passed over the
city of Lowell, Massachusetts, and over Lawrence
and Haverhill, a few miles beyond.
They were nearing the sea again, and Bill
noticed that the closer they came to the coast,
the stronger was the wind from the southwest
behind them. A new thought came into his
head. With the quick decision of the trained
heavier-than-air pilot, he acted at once.</p>
<p>Out came his map, which he flattened on
his knees. Next, the cockpit light snapped on.
For a moment he studied his position. Then
the light went off and the map into the pocket
of his short leather jacket.</p>
<div class="pb" id="Page_49">49</div>
<p>The amphibian was a trifle tail-heavy, so
dropping the nose to level he gave her right
aileron and simultaneously increased right
rudder. Round to the right swung the nose
of the speeding plane. When the desired
bank was reached, he checked the wings with
the ailerons and at the same time eased the
pressure on the rudder. Half a moment later
he applied left aileron, and left rudder, resuming
straight flight, headed toward the
coast on a course that would take them fifty
miles east of Portland.</p>
<p>With wings level once more, he neutralized
the ailerons, gave the bus a normal amount of
right rudder and settled back comfortably in
his seat.</p>
<p>The little port of Cushing, just beyond
where the Merrimac River empties into the
sea, faded away behind them. Below now
was the blue Atlantic, dotted here and there
with the patched sails of fishermen, returning
with the night’s catch. Far to the starboard,
hugging the horizon, Bill saw a large
single-stacker, a freighter, heading so as
to clear Cape Ann on her way to Boston.</p>
<div class="pb" id="Page_50">50</div>
<p>The day had dawned bright and clear. It
was perfect flying weather. With a twenty-mile
breeze spanking their tailplane, Bill
knew that they must be doing at least one hundred
and fifty-five M.P.H. He felt the exhilaration
of broad spaces and swift flight.
The salt tang of the sea smelled good. He
was content.</p>
<p>Half an hour or so went by. A sleepy voice
in Bill’s receivers roused him from revery.
“Where under the shining sun are we?”</p>
<p>“Just there—or thereabouts.”</p>
<p>“Gee—are we heading for Europe?”</p>
<p>“Nope. For breakfast, I hope.”</p>
<p>“But what are we doing over the ocean,
Bill?”</p>
<p>“Taking a short cut, kid. This course will
lop off a good hundred and fifty miles from
the route via Portland and up the coast.”</p>
<p>“I suppose it was the sea fog that made you
figure on the other way when we hopped off?”</p>
<div class="pb" id="Page_51">51</div>
<p>Bill laughed, goodnaturedly. “You show
almost human intelligence this morning,
Charles. You’ll be telling me next that the
sun is shining and the prop is turning round!”</p>
<p>Charlie snorted. “Aw, cut it out, Bill.
Tell me, is there anything I can eat on board
this crate?”</p>
<p>“Not unless you start on a strut. The
French have a saying that ‘Who sleeps, dines.’
If that is so you ought to be filled to the brim.”</p>
<p>“Huh!” was Charlie’s sole comment.
Then he asked: “What are those islands
ahead to port?”</p>
<p>“Matinicus Island and Matinicus Rock.”</p>
<p>“How much farther is it to the Heads?”</p>
<p>“About a hundred miles. Our airspeed is
135 M.P.H., and we’re running before a
twenty-knot wind. Figure it out for yourself.”</p>
<p>“D’you want the answer in acres?”</p>
<div class="pb" id="Page_52">52</div>
<p>“The answer I want,” said Bill slowly,
“is how I am going to land and park this bus
when we get there, if some more of your cut-throat
pals are hanging round the house.”</p>
<p>“I never thought of that,” admitted Charlie.</p>
<p>“I didn’t think you would. Turn your
mighty brain on it. If you guess the right
answer I’ll ask Mr. Evans to give you a lollipop.”</p>
<p>Bill paid no attention to the forth-coming
torrent of sarcasm from Charlie. His headphone
set lay on the floor of the cockpit.</p>
<div class="pb" id="Page_53">53</div>
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