CHAPTER VI

ON THE WING

Hal Dane's blond head was in a whirl. In sixty brief minutes Maben had tried to cram into his cranium all the vast maze of desperately important facts that one needs must master prior to stunting and parachuting.

They were up in the air now, zooming over the city. Young Dane had on his first real flying suit. He leaned back awkwardly against the pack of his parachute. He had never had on one of the things before. There was something else new, the speaking tube with earpieces that fitted up under the helmet. Maben was talking through it now.

"City looks pretty down there--trees and houses all flattened out like pictures on a rug. I'll circle you over the Fairgrounds next, so you can see the clear space you're to come down in. Got a mob to watch us, ain't we?"

Hal felt grateful to Maben. He knew all this kindly rambling talk was indulged in to keep a raw new amateur stunter's mind off the coming crisis.

Above them the sky was bright and beautiful; scarcely a cloud flecked it. Below them little black dots milled around in every direction. That would be the crowd swarming out to enjoy the vicarious thrill of seeing someone else in the air. There were tiny waving threads that must be flags, and a decorated stand where a band was probably blaring.

"Feel your strap--good and tight--for sure?" Maben's voice rumbled to him. "Got to do my part of the stunting now."

There came a sudden change in the behavior of the plane. Instead of straight flying, Maben began to put it through an intricate series of stunts. He went into nose spins, tail spins, falling leaves, and loop the loops. It was a breath-taking exhibit, at times seemingly reckless beyond all warrant. Yet there was never a slip nor careen to the ship. For perhaps half an hour this continued, then the plane straightened out in a long graceful glide.

"Your time next, kid," muttered Maben, "and for Scott's sake, hold on and be careful. Don't try to give 'em too much for their money."

Hal pulled the earpieces of the speaking tube from under his helmet and climbed out of the cockpit.

He stood on the lower wing surface, holding on by a strut, waiting. Over his left shoulder he had a glimpse of the pilot's strained face.

Maben was circling the plane lower and lower, flying just above the trees and the grandstand to catch the eye of the crowd.

Ready, go! It was the time. Hal, clinging to the strut, poised to walk out on that wing piece of fragile wood strips and cloth, had the ghastly feeling that his heart had stopped beating. Then its pounding sent the blood roaring to his ears.

No treat, this wing walking business! Suppose the pilot shoved the stick or jazzed the engine!

But Max Maben held his speed to a level; no dropping, no high-riding. Nice work! The ship steady on all axes, calm as a rocking chair in a parlor!

Hal's terror wave passed. He stood free of the strut, walked, bowed, cut a step or two. With a man like Maben at the stick to hold her steady, this was nothing. No more than walking the boards of some earth-bound floor. All you had to do was to keep your mind on your feet, and not look over the edge. Through Hal shot a sudden daring desire to climb a strut to the top wing of the biplane, to stand there erect, outlined against the sky. He gripped a support preparatory to a climb.

Maben's signal stopped him. It came sharply, the signal they had arranged upon, two quick taps on the fuselage. Hal turned. The pilot was glaring at him from under fiercely drawn brows, and his mouth was in a set line. Swiftly Maben gave the next signal, three taps. That meant the ship was going to climb for altitude for the parachute jump.

The altimeter began to mark up--fifteen hundred, eighteen hundred, two thousand. Maben made a level movement with one hand. That meant all was ready. In slow reversements, Maben held the ship over the center of the field below.

"Go!" tapped the four beats of the signal.

Hal was out on the wing tip. He made a movement towards space, froze back into a crouch and felt frenziedly back at his parachute. Suppose it were not there! Suppose he had never put it on! His fingers touched the compact bulk of the 'chute that dangled gawkily from shoulder straps and belt straps. Hal braced himself, shamed at his childishness. No more fooling. He must go this time.

Steady, go!

Hal Dane stepped off the wing edge and dropped into space.

The pull-off swung him like a toy. Everything went black. He shut his eyes, opened them again. The earth seemed to gyrate below him. Above him, the zoom of the ship.

He must pull the rip cord of the 'chute. No, no--not yet! Must wait, must be no danger of tearing silken fabric against a whirl of the plane.

Down, down. Top speed. Heart in throat. Ghastly shriek of air in his face. His head was going down. He must kick, keep the slant. Maben had said, "Keep your head up--head down gives you one bustin' yank in the middle when she opens up!"

One, two, four, six,--twenty--no use to count heartbeats--heart must have thumped a thousand times by now. No time to waste. Earth looked like it was coming up. Now! Now! He must pull the rip cord!

Down, down. The thing hadn't opened! Suppose--

The great silk lobe opened out with a "pow-a" like a cannon shot.

The lightning speed drop was checked suddenly, and the parachute harness tightened about him at the pull. He seemed to drop no more. He felt that he was only floating, a mere dot against the immensity of the skies. He seemed an unreality, a swaying atom drifting in the gulfs of space. The earth that a moment ago had seemed coming up to meet him now seemed a thousand miles away. Would he ever come down, touch foot on that earth again?

As the great inverted chalice of the silken parachute ceased its oscillations, the earth also ceased its tremendous rise and fall. It seemed to stand steady below Hal Dane, and he was approaching it faster than he had thought.

The boy suddenly remembered to cross his legs (Max Maben's orders), lest he straddle a telephone wire, a church steeple or something equally disastrous.

A feeling of terrible helplessness was upon him. Nothing that he could do could change his direction. The wind could do that though. A sudden gust could blow him out over water, ram him against a stone building, hurl him before a rushing train.

But no wind arose. He was coming straight down. The crowd below seemed scattering to give him room. He looked up, saw Maben climbing down from the skies to meet him.

On the field, men were running forward to catch his heels as he touched earth. Many hands helped him hold down against the tug of the parachute, while he worked at the clips of the harness. As the straps fell away and he stepped free, Maben landed and taxied towards him.

"Kid, you did it!" Maben's brown hands gripped his shoulder and turned him about to face the applause of the crowd that had gone crazy with clapping and shouting. Swept away by relaxation of the tense excitement, those near him pounded him, tried to hoist him on shoulders for a parade.

It was Hal's first taste of glory. It thrilled him, but he soon longed to get away from it all. As soon as he could he ducked and escaped and followed in the direction of Maben, whom he had seen trundling the plane into seclusion behind the grandstand.

"Say!" Maben turned on him in mock fierceness, "I'm of a mind to kick you for overstunting on that plane wing. No use being too risky--just plain foolishness, that. But, kid," the aviator's habitually tense face relaxed into a boyish grin. "I'll say you made that come down O. K.,--all jake! An old-timer couldn't have done it prettier. Listen, I got a proposition I want to make you!"