CHAPTER XXX

FROM OUT THE CLOUDS

Johnny Thompson saw no more of the mysterious Gray Shadow among the clouds that morning. He was soon enough to forget all about him, for fresh adventure lay before him.

Hardly had they left the Shadow and his cloud behind than he began thinking of his promise to Curlie. He had agreed to drop from the sky and to play the part of good fairy to a crippled child.

Johnny was very fond of small children, crippled children most of all. But as the plane sped on high in the air, as they came nearer and nearer to the place where Curlie must turn and give him the signal to prepare for the leap, he found himself wishing that the sky lay close to the ground where one might step off at any time.

“Well,” he sighed at last, “there must always be a first time.

“And,” he groaned a moment later, “if anything goes wrong, the first is last and the last is first.”

At that he began thinking of Curlie’s instructions: “Walk out on the wing. Watch your balance. Play you are on a diving board. Make a dive. Count five. Pull the cord. The parachute will do the rest. Only, when you come close to the earth, see that your knees are bent. Don’t land stiff-legged. That’s dangerous.”

Buttoned inside of Johnny’s jacket was a doll. Wrapped about the doll was the marked money.

“Anyway,” he sighed, “I’ll be through with that money. They’ll never suspect this trick of ours. And they’ll never find it. This is once in my life when I do the Robin Hood.”

Hardly had he thought this through than Curlie turned his head about to nod. He held up three fingers.

“Three fingers. Three minutes!” Johnny’s mind went into a whirl. Three minutes of sunshine and fleecy clouds. Three minutes of glorious freedom and life. And after that?

He rose stiffly to his place. As he put out a hand to steady himself it seemed that he was stiff as a wooden soldier.

“What nonsense!” He got a grip on himself. “Gotta go through! Lots of fellows have.”

At this he felt better. He moved carefully a little way out on the wing, looked to the straps about his body, allowed his eyes to circle the sky; then, putting his hands together, he made a perfect dive.

At once he was shocked because there was no shock. He was going down. But what a glorious sensation! Like real flying, a bird’s way.

“One. Two. Three. Four. Five!”

He pulled the cord. More gliding downward. A slight shock that told him the parachute was open; then the earth came up to meet him.

At first a blurred impression, it resolved itself into fields and pastures, an orchard, a farmhouse, and last of all, a small girl dressed in red.

Johnny came down standing. He ran a few steps. His parachute folded up. He lurched a step or two, then stood still not thirty feet from a very much surprised little girl who fairly danced, in spite of her crutches.

“Where did you come from?” she demanded. “I looked, and you were not there. Then I looked again and you were. How funny!”

“Yes,” said Johnny, “it is strange. But then, this is a strange world.

“I came down from the air to bring you a doll. Curlie sent it—Curlie Carson.”

“Curlie Carson! A doll!”

“Yes,” said Johnny. “She shuts her eyes when she sleeps. And she can talk a little. But the best part is her dress. See! It is all made of real money! There is another dress underneath. So tell your daddy to take off this green dress and use it buying things for you.”

“Oh!” The little girl stared. She did not understand all this. But she took the doll.

“Her father may not understand it either,” Johnny told himself. “Guess I’ll leave it that way, at that.”

“Good-bye, little girl. Have a good time.”

He gathered up his parachute and started for the road.

“Aren’t you going back into the air?” she asked.

“Not to-day. Some other time.”

He climbed over the fence, caught a ride on a passing truck, and was gone.

That night there was surprise and great rejoicing in the little unpainted farmhouse that lay beneath the great Air Mail route to New York. And many were the happy days that followed.

It is safe to say that Greasy Thumb and his gang never guessed the final disposition of their ill-gotten gain—their marked money.