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Title: The Old Lady flies
Author: Raoul Whitfield
Release date: February 25, 2026 [eBook #78035]
Language: English
Original publication: New York: Street & Smith Corporation, 1927
Credits: Prepared by volunteers at BookCove (bookcove.net)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE OLD LADY FLIES ***
THE OLD LADY FLIES
By Raoul F. Whitfield
CHAPTER I.
STICKING TO HIS PLANE.
Russ Healy always insisted that the old girl understood. But Russ was
that rare sort of creature--a flyer who was sentimental. Of course, on
the face of things, it was sheer rot. A plane is an inanimate object,
theoretically--and therefore incapable of understanding. But Russ didn’t
look at it that way. There was no doubt about the fact that he loved the
Jenny.
He’d picked her up right after the war, on a government sale. She hadn’t
been flown at all, and Russ had worked with her ever since that time.
He’d joy-hopped her, taken a chance on air advertising, smoke writing,
stunting. He’d even done some air surveying with her, and I think he
chased boll weevils, down South, at one time--spraying from the Jenny.
She’d cracked up with him more than once, but Russ would just patch
her up--and patch himself up. She wasn’t a pretty sight. She was
dirty--oil-stained, her wing fabric of varied colors, her struts
lacking varnish. She sagged a bit on her under carriage. But her
flying wires were right; she was rigged properly for the air. She was
slow, of course--powered by an old Hall-Scott engine, and sluggish on
the controls, compared to the new ships. Just an old lady, that was
all she was--an old lady, still turning a prop and taking the air,
but pretty far out of date.
We had eight ships in the circus, and five pilots. That is, we had
five fliers who could do more than get off and land. A couple of the
grease monkeys could qualify--indeed, had qualified--for a license,
but that doesn’t make a flyer--not by about a thousand air hours and
considerable natural ability. However, when we made the jump from the
outskirts of one town to the outskirts of another, the two mechanics
each flew a ship, and Bob Brooks, who ran the Brooks’ Flying Circus,
flew the other. That got the eight ships around, and made a nice
showing in the sky.
It was Bob Brooks’ wife who started the thing. She was a peach, and Bob
was crazy about her. I didn’t blame him.
We ran into a streak of tough luck. Charlie Ryan crashed on a landing,
and both he and his mechanic, riding in the rear cockpit, were badly
smashed up. Then Duke Conroy got in a spin, out of a side-slip--and we
had to leave him at the hospital pretty badly hurt.
It was then that Bob’s wife had her little say. It was, in effect, that
her good-looking husband keep both feet on the ground.
We stayed around Los Angeles, picking up a few movie jobs, and looking
at the mountains and the Pacific from the air until the boys came out
of the hospital. We lost a little money.
Then Bob Brooks called us into the big tent we slung up on the field in
which we were parking, and gave us a little talk. “I’m giving the air
the air,” he said. “I never did do much but ferry. I’ve got too much
brain.” He grinned, and so did we. “And now I’m not even ferrying. So
we’ve got to cut down a bit. We’ll drop two ships. Vance Bailey has
bought that Standard. Now, about the other----”
Brooks’ eyes went to those of Russ Healy, and we knew right away what
was coming. It gave me a jolt, because I knew Russ--and I knew the way
he felt. And I guess it gave the others a jolt, too.
“About the other,” Bob repeated uncomfortably, “I guess we’ll have to
let the ‘Old Lady’ go, Russ.”
Well, there it was. Russ Healy blinked a couple of times. He’s tall and
lean, with gray, squinted eyes--and usually there’s a tight little smile
playing around his lips. But the smile wasn’t there now.
Healy shook his head slowly. Then he got a pill from the pack. “If you
do,” he said very slowly, “I’ll just go along with her.”
Bob Brooks frowned. “You can have the new Waco, Russ. You can do
anything with her. She’s got power, climb, dive. She’s an easy
rider----”
“I’m sticking with the Old Lady,” Russ said quietly. “When do you want
me to cut loose?”
I saw then that Brooks was getting sore. Russ Healy was a sweet stunt
flyer; in fact, he was a good man all around when it came to air stuff.
There wasn’t much that Russ couldn’t do, or hadn’t done.
“Look here!” Brooks said. “We can’t fly a ship around if there’s no one
to climb inside and get at the stick. You don’t expect me to let a new
plane drop--and hang on to a rambling wreck? Why, that Jenny is liable
to fall to pieces in the first spin you get her into, and----”
Russ Healy’s eyes narrowed. “Think so?” He spoke grimly. “Well, I’ll
just take her up there now--and loop you ragged, and then I’ll come
down in the tightest spin----”
“Yes you will! Not with _me_!” Brooks’ face was flushed.
“That’s right,” Russ said grimly. “I forgot you were quitting the air.”
It was his tone that did it. And they had both flared, were both pretty
hot.
Bob Brooks glared at Russ. “I’m not quitting the air until we hit Tia
Juana,” the boss said slowly. “I’ll fly the Waco down. You can take
that wreck of yours--and cut loose, any time you like. What do we owe
you?”
Russ Healy smiled. “Not a cent,” he said. “I owe _you_ fifty bucks--the
final payment on that last wreck replacement material for the Old Lady.
I’ll see that you get it by dark.”
Then he turned and walked away.
CHAPTER II.
QUICK ACTION NEEDED.
Bob Brooks looked at me, shook his head slowly. I was frowning.
The boys were talking together in low tones.
“Not so good, Bob!” I said. “You’re cutting loose the most popular guy
in the outfit--and just because he sticks by his old bus.”
Brooks didn’t see it that way. He spoke to the rest of the gang: “We’re
losing money. I can’t fly all the ships we’ve got. Why should I get rid
of the new ones--just because I’m sentimental? This is a business--not
a sob factory!”
There was common sense in that. We could see Brooks’ side of it. And the
sky-riding game hadn’t been so good lately--something had to be done.
“I think a lot of Russ Healy,” Brooks went on, looking at each one of us
in turn. “Even if he did hint that I was showing yellow by sticking on
the ground--I like him. Some of you boys talk to him. He could store
that ship up at Al Garvin’s hangar. Then every month or so I’ll give him
a day off, and if he’s close enough he can come back and pet it.”
With that final sarcasm, Bob Brooks walked out of the tent. I chased
after him, having just had an idea. They don’t come very often, but
sometimes they’re good when they do come.
“Russ is sore, Bob,” I said, “and he owes you fifty bucks. He’s going to
try to get that fifty. I happen to know that he hasn’t got it. And he’s
going to try to show you up--show you that the Old Lady can still do her
stuff. Now--how’s he going to do it?”
Bob frowned. “He isn’t! He’s just talking.”
“You know better than that,” I replied. “He isn’t that kind. I’ll tell
you what he’s going to do--he’s going to tackle the ‘War Aces’ job!”
That got Bob. That job happened to be one which had been turned down by
three flying outfits and a half dozen joy-hoppers who were going it
alone. A fellow named Conant was directing a picture of war-flying days,
and he wanted some crash stuff. He was willing to pay for it, and he
didn’t expect the pilot to kill himself. But he wanted a crash--and some
tight, low spins that wouldn’t be easy.
“Russ wouldn’t do that job,” Bob said. “He’s too wise for that.”
“But he’s sore,” I repeated. “It gives him a chance to show you what the
Old Lady can do--in the air. And it gives him a chance to hand you the
fifty and tell you----”
An exhaust roar cut me short. We both stared toward the dead-line. There
was only one ship out of the canvas hangars, and it was the Old Lady,
the Jenny.
I swore softly. “Stop him, Bob! Stall him off. He’s going to fly over to
that field where they’re doing the air-shoot on----”
“Come on!” yelled Brooks, and ran toward the ship. I followed. We
dodged through the wash of the Old Lady’s prop; her engine was being
tested with blocks under the wheels. We both climbed up on a wing as
Russ Healy cut the throttle and eliminated most of the exhaust roar.
“Forget about that fifty, Russ.” Bob Brooks grinned. “We’ll call it
square. Where are you going----”
Brooks stopped.
There was a faint smile playing about Healy’s lips; his eyes were
narrowed.
“Get off that wing, Brooks!” Russ’ tone was hard. “I’m going to put
the Old Lady through some stunts that you’ll pay coin to look at! And
you’ll have your fifty, all right. This old girl has made plenty for
you--she’ll make that fifty----”
“Forget it!” Bob said. “If you try to do picture stuff with this----”
“Get off that wing!” Russ shouted, his face white. He knew what was
coming--what _would_ have come. “Get off--or I’ll bounce you off. Take
those blocks away, Bud!”
“Russ,” I yelled desperately, “Bob didn’t exactly mean that about the
Old Lady. Cool down and----”
The ship rolled forward from the dead-line. I jumped off the trailing
edge of the wing. The prop wash caught me and bowled me over a few
times. Something battered against me. I sat up to find Bob Brooks
sitting beside me. The Old Lady was climbing off the field--cross
wind.
We got up and watched her climb. I thought, for a few seconds, that Russ
might just take her up a few thousand and do some stunts. But he didn’t.
He headed her northeast, and flew in a straight line. He didn’t even
bother to get altitude.
I groaned. “He’s heading dead for that field in the hills--where they’re
making ‘War Aces!’ He’ll kill himself, sure as----”
Bob Brooks swore softly. Then he smiled. “He owes me money on that
plane! It’ll take time to get cameras set up. They may not be working
today. Anyway, it’ll all take time. We’ll climb in the D.H. 6 and fly
over. I’ll talk to Conant--he can’t use Russ----”
“He’ll hand you the fifty and tell you to clear out,” I interrupted.
“And Russ’ll raise the devil if you try to cut in on him.”
Bob Brooks groaned. “They’ll say I rode him into being bumped off! He’ll
get all smashed--we’ve _got_ to do something!”
I nodded. “What?” I asked simply. And that was the question.
CHAPTER III.
TROUBLE AHEAD AND BELOW.
We wasted about five minutes talking the thing over. Al Rodgers and
Dave Simmons joined us. Charlie Ryan and Duke Conroy came up. It was
Conroy who hit on the idea.
“Russ is a good guy, boss,” he said. “He gets heated up easily--but
he’s all right. I’m not going to stick over here and see him kill
himself for the chance of showing you up, and getting fifty bucks. I
know this fellow Conant. As long as he shoots the crash--he won’t care
about Russ. When that fellow Donnelly, who made a living by pulling off
crashes for the film gang, got his, did they do any prolonged weeping?
They did not. Just business--and he’d signed a paper releasing them
from any responsibility, of course. I won’t let Russ get hot-headed and
bump himself off that way!”
“How,” I asked, “are you going to stop it?”
“Not _me_,” Conroy said. “_Us!_ I could lick Russ if I hadn’t just
come out of the hospital, maybe--but there would still be the movie
gang. There’s only one thing to do. We’ll _all_ fly over there--and
raise merry----”
“Great!” I interrupted, and grabbed Bob Brooks by the arm. “But first
let’s call the Mammoth Film Company--and make sure they’re working on
air stuff today. They’ve been shooting some mild flying, even if they
couldn’t get the crash stuff.”
Bob nodded excitedly. “Get the ships out! You call up, Mac. We’ll fly
five ships over--I’ll ride with you, Mac. Hurry it up! They might just
happen to be set for the stuff.”
There was a gas station about a half mile down the road which ran past
the field, and I trotted toward it. The other boys were moving toward
the hangars. I chuckled. Russ would be sore, furious--when we flew in
and busted things up. And six of us could do it.
It was the only thing to do. I’d heard about Conant. He was an
aggressive chap, and he knew his air. He’d flown during the war, and
then he’d quit, which showed me that he had brains. It was his job
now to get crash scenes for “War Aces”--and he was up against it. It
isn’t easy to crash a ship, and get away cheerfully.
Donnelly had done it--for about three crashes, wing-overs and stalls.
And then the engine had come back on his chest--and he was through.
“War Aces” was a thriller--I knew, because I’d read it. It wasn’t
exactly highbrow, and it wouldn’t take much acting, but it would take
some crashing, and some bang-up air stuff. If the movie bunch were
working--and I had a hunch that they were--Conant would grab Russ and
the Old Lady. And Russ was so sore that he’d forgotten all about
himself. That was a cinch. He was like that.
It took me five minutes to get somebody at the picture outfit that
knew about the shoot. And they gave me a straight answer. Conant had
five cameras out at the field, in the hills back of Hollywood. He had
two ships. He was shooting stuff. And the company was still looking
for a thrill-man. Did I know of one?
I groaned and hung up. When I got back to the dead-line the ships were
out, and being tested at the blocks. I gave Bob the cheerful news. He
swore a couple of times.
“When we hit the field we’ll set our ship down,” he explained. “Look out
for holes--they may have been doing some war-time shell-hole stuff. Mac
and I will go after Russ--and hang on to him. You fellows get down as
soon after us as you can, in case this fellow Conant gets rough with us
for breaking up the party. I’ll do the talking. If things look tough,
you ease up to the Old Lady--and break a connection, Duke.”
Duke Conroy grinned. “I’d rather talk with this Conant, but you’re the
boss.”
“Well--let’s get up and over there!” Bob said. “I started this mess and
I’ll finish it! And believe me, when I get Russ Healy back here----”
“I’ll feel a lot better!” I interrupted--and meant it.
Then we climbed the five ships, and taxied out. Sixty seconds later
we were off the earth--and heading for the field from which they
were shooting the “War Aces” stuff. As the D.H. climbed, and I held
the joy-stick back a bit from the neutral position, I shook my head
slowly. Knowing Russ Healy as well as I did, I could figure trouble
ahead and below.
“Unless we wreck things generally,” I thought to myself, “the Old Lady
flies!”
CHAPTER IV.
READY TO FIGHT.
It wasn’t hard to spot the field on which they were making “War
Aces”--or at least a part of it. It was a level stretch, between
rolling hills. There were shell holes, home-made but real warlike,
at one end. At the other end of the stretch there were three ships.
Two of them were small, single-seaters. One, I guessed, was a baby
Nieuport. Ed Seeley had one of those, but he wasn’t doing any crash
stuff with it, I knew that.
As we circled over, I saw that they were working on the Old Lady.
Probably they were rigging up a couple of dummy guns, or trying to
make her look like a D.H. or a bomber of some type. It was hard to
figure just what they could make the Old Lady look like--but they do
queer things in the movies.
I cut the throttle, and glided down. Bob Brooks yelled at me above the
whistling of wind through the flying wires: “We’ll be in time! They’re
trying to camouflage the Old Lady!”
I nodded, and brought the D.H. down into the wind. We made a fair
landing, and I taxied around and rolled back toward the three planes.
The crowd was watching me come up, and some of the bunch on the field
were staring up at the other boys.
We rolled fairly close to the parked ships, and I cut the switch. Bob
and I climbed down, and we were met at the wing tip by a scowling Russ
Healy. Beside him was this fellow Conant, short and stocky--and dolled
up as though he were going to play a round or two of championship golf.
Brooks grinned. “Hello, boys!” he greeted them. “Just paying you a
little visit. Sort of a social call. How’s the picture coming along?”
Conant smiled. “It’ll be all right now,” he said cheerfully. “Healy’s
going to do some crashes for us--and some war air stuff. If we could
work you boys in----” He stopped.
Bob Brooks was shaking his head slowly. “Russ isn’t going to do any
crashes for you--not in the Old Lady! And you can’t work us in, Conant.”
Russ Healy swore softly.
Conant looked sort of amused.
There was a crowd of picture people around us by this time, but the
other boys were setting their ships down on the field. I wasn’t worried
much.
“If it’s a matter of money----” Conant said.
“It isn’t,” Brooks interrupted him. Then he grinned.
I could see that Brooks was trying to get out of it peaceably, if he
could, and I had my doubts about that.
“You see,” Brooks continued, “we sort of like Russ around the outfit.
Sometimes he has careless ideas, but he’s not doing any crashing for
you--get that straight!”
Conant stiffened and smiled in a rather superior manner.
Just then Al Rodgers and Dave Simmons shoved their way to our side.
Bob Brooks grinned. “Did Duke go over to the Old Lady?” he asked
Simmons.
Simmons nodded. “With his best pair of pliers,” he said cheerfully, and
I saw Russ Healy straighten up and his face get hard.
Brooks nodded. “Russ,” he said slowly, “suppose you come along back with
us. You can ride me back in the Old Lady. Maybe I was a little hasty
about that ship. Maybe we can frame some way of taking her----”
“Not a chance!” Russ interrupted hotly. “You fellows clear off this
field. If they don’t clear off, Conant----”
Conant nodded his head slowly.
I looked at the director, but I spoke to Bob Brooks. “I’ll take this
little runt,” I told him. “And I won’t need that set of brass knuckles
unless they get to piling on me too thick.”
Dave Simmons chuckled. Dave’s about the biggest pilot in captivity,
and he likes a good, uneven scrap. “I’m glad we came over,” he said
cheerfully. “Better shoot this stuff, Conant. It’ll make good war
stuff.”
CHAPTER V.
SOMETHING UP.
I could see, by that time, that Conant wasn’t a scrapper. He just smiled
in a sort of apologetic way.
“If it’s any of your business,” he said, addressing Brooks, “perhaps it
might be advisable to talk things over.”
Healy didn’t like that. He glared at Bob Brooks, and said: “I owe him
fifty dollars, Conant. Give it to him, and take it off my stunt pay.”
I expected that.
So did Bob. He shook his head. “I’ll have to look up some papers,” he
replied. “Don’t know the exact amount, and, anyway, Healy is under a
contract to fly for me--not for himself. We’d have to----”
“I’ve busted the contract!” Russ Healy exclaimed. “I’ll fly any way that
I want to fly. The Old Lady’s my ship. You say she’s no good. I’ll show
you how good she is--and you’ll pay money to see her in the movies----”
“Steady!” Bob interrupted him. “Maybe we’d just better grab him,
Mac--what do you think?”
I looked at Russ. He was pretty white around the ears, but he was still
able to use his head.
“Better come along, Russ!” It was Simmons who spoke. “If you and your
friends hop us, Duke’ll clip a few wires with his pliers, and you never
will get the Old Lady off--not for a few days, anyway.”
Healy glared at Simmons. Then he looked at the director. Conant was
smiling cheerfully. There was a peculiar expression in Russ Healy’s
eyes suddenly. He shrugged his shoulders.
“All right,” he said. “But I’ll be back in a few days, Conant--just as
soon as I work out fifty bucks’ worth of air stuff for the old miser,
here.”
Conant nodded. “We’ll shoot some other scenes in the meantime,” he
replied, and kept right on smiling. “Don’t get hurt, Healy.”
I laughed out loud at that one. Conant telling Russ not to get hurt! It
was pretty rich.
“I’ll ride back with Russ, Mac,” the boss told me. “You boys stay down
here until we take off.”
I nodded and lighted a pill.
Russ followed Bob Brooks along toward the Old Lady.
Conant shrugged his shoulders. “Just one delay after another,” he
declared. “It’s beastly!”
“Sure it is,” I agreed. “Times are getting tough when you can’t get
fellows to kill themselves by crashing planes for a few hundred
dollars.”
But Conant didn’t get sore. He kept right on smiling. And remembering
that expression I’d seen in Russ Healy’s eyes, I figured that something
was up. I tried to dope out just what it would be, as I walked over
toward the D.H., but it had me buffaloed.
The Old Lady’s appearance sidetracked me. They hadn’t had much time,
but already they’d mounted two guns on the old Jenny, and there was
camouflage paint on her--not yet dry. There wasn’t very much of it,
but enough to make her look like a different ship. She’d do for a
crash, anyway.
Russ was climbing into the front cockpit, and as he squirmed into place
back of the stick, he looked at me. He was grinning. Bob Brooks was
already seated in the rear cockpit.
I waved a hand and went on toward the D.H. The other boys were already
in their planes, or moving toward them.
I hadn’t more than snapped the self-starter and let the prop turn over a
few times, when the Old Lady, gaudy in her new disguise, took the air. I
stared at her. The dummy guns were still in place. I wondered why Bob
hadn’t raised the devil about that, but I figured he was glad enough to
get Russ away so easily.
“He’ll have to do _some_ talking to keep Russ from coming back!” I
thought, as I advanced the throttle a few notches and taxied out into
the wind. “_Something’s_ funny in this deal. I’m sure of that!”
I’d heard a lot about this fellow Conant, and I _knew_ a lot about Russ
Healy. Neither of them, from the way I figured it, had run true to form.
They’d let us set the ships down there, and deliberately bust up their
little party.
They’d taken it pretty calmly, too. Then, there had been that exchange
of glances between Conant and Russ Healy. That had counted for
something. As I lifted the De Havilland off the field, following the Old
Lady, I shook my head. “Something’s up--besides some joy-hopping ships!”
I said to myself. “But _what_?”
CHAPTER VI.
TRICKED INTO A CRASH.
The answer came when I got up to four thousand feet, and it came so
suddenly that I almost let the D.H. slip into a tail-spin. We’d been
climbing in a wide circle--the five ships--following the Old Lady.
And I guess we’d all been getting a kick out of those two dummy guns
and the slapped-on war paint.
All of a sudden the Old Lady stood right up on her tail in a sweet
zoom--and laid over on her back! Then she came down in a pretty fair
loop!
I had the D.H. out of her way, banking off vertically. As I came around,
in a position to get a good look at things, I saw plenty.
There were about a dozen ships in the air. At least four of them were
stunting--looping, doing wing-overs, Immelmanns, and spins! From two
of them came sulphurous trails of yellow, streaming off at an angle.
They had guns--and were shooting them!
The Old Lady was going down in a spin, and two planes were following her
down, both streaming out yellow trails from their exhausts and spitting
red from guns shooting between the synchronized propeller blades! Diving
near by was a fourth ship, with a bird standing in the rear cockpit--and
turning a crank in a boxlike affair!
Then I got it. Conant and Russ Healy had framed us! They were shooting
from the air and from the ground--shooting stuff for the picture! And
they were using our five ships!
A screaming, wire-whistling shape dove past the D.H. on the right, and
instinctively I banked away. But even as I did so, I got a glimpse of
a helmeted figure using a camera. He wasn’t cranking it--but I guessed
that he had one of the new, electrically driven ones that didn’t need
it.
I had the D.H. in a spin. Bob Brooks, riding with Russ, being let in
for all this frame-up! And the Old Lady doing all of her stuff! No
wonder Russ had exchanged glances with Conant!
At three thousand feet I got the D.H. out of the spin, leveled off, and
gave her the gun.
There were white bursts in the air, and on the ground below there were
more of them. I banked over, looking for the Old Lady. I saw one of the
circus ships going down in a steep glide, with a strange plane on her
tail. A ship was looping a few thousand feet above me, white bursts on
her right. Smoke was drifting all across the sky.
Then I spotted the Old Lady. She was going down toward the field, at the
shell-ripped end, with one of the Nieuports I’d seen right behind her. I
caught sight of two camera men, shooting up at her as she came down.
I dove the D.H. I was too surprised and too excited to get sore.
Anyway, it wouldn’t have done any good. The whole thing was plain now.
I’d always given Russ credit for having brains, but I’d never given him
credit for having this much.
They’d had ships waiting on some other field of course, and Russ had
guessed that we’d come after him. When Bob Brooks had said he’d fly
back with Russ he’d played right into that pilot’s hands. Two birds
with one stone! Not only would Brooks sit in on the sky shoot, but
he’d be right there for the crash--the big scene that Conant wanted!
I groaned. The D.H. was down pretty low now. I could see a ship diving
off to the side of the Old Lady, and in the center of the shell-holed
area were two more camera men, waiting to shoot the crash from the
ground.
The Old Lady was slipping off on a wing now, and I knew that Russ
was trying to hit the spot near the camera men. There was the fellow
grinding away from the plane at one side, too--still shooting the
fake battle.
I thought of Bob Brooks in the rear cockpit. He was helpless--it
wasn’t a dual-control ship. Russ had put the Old Lady through every
air stunt--and Bob had had to sit there and take it. Now he was in
for the crash!
It was a beauty! The Old Lady nosed right into what looked like a
fairly deep shell hole. Her propeller splintered, her tail came up. I
could hear her wings crackling, with the engine throttled down. Then
she tumbled over, upside down--and I groaned and dove the D.H. for a
landing.
“The old fool!” I said, and wasn’t at all sure that I really meant it.
CHAPTER VII.
THE ONLY WAY TO SETTLE IT.
When I got up beside the Old Lady, Russ Healy was leaning against a
wheel and smoking a cigarette. Bob Brooks was limping around, trying
out his left leg, and muttering to himself. Conant was standing near
by, and scribbling on a piece of oblong paper with a fountain pen.
“Hello there, rough boy!” Russ greeted me cheerfully. His head was
bandaged, and a medical-appearing gentleman was putting more white
stuff around his left wrist and hand. “Can the Old Lady fly?”
I grunted. She wasn’t as complete a wreck as I’d expected to see, and
there was a reason. The shell hole was filled with nice, soft sand!
“She _could_ fly!” I replied.
Bob Brooks limped over my way. “They put one over on us, Mac!” he said.
“They shot all sorts of stuff. They used our planes, their planes--and
then even used _me_!”
I couldn’t help but grin.
Then the red-faced, golf-togged Conant came over and waved a check
toward Bob. “This should help,” the director said. “We _had_ to have
your planes. Can’t use all of it, of course. You weren’t rigged with
guns and stuff. But it’ll help--in the flashes. Is it all right?”
Bob took the check, and I looked over his shoulder. We both gasped
together. As a check it was a masterpiece.
“It’s--all right!” Bob managed to say.
Conant chuckled. “Had to have the stuff!” he said. “Needed our
ships--all I could scrape together--for the cameras. Most of them,
anyway. Of course, I’ll take care of Healy----”
Russ grinned. Then his face sobered. He glared at Bob Brooks.
“How about it?” he asked. “Can the Old Lady fly? Does she get fixed
up--and do I sky-ride her with the outfit?”
Bob Brooks looked up at the sky, and I could see that he was thinking
back about four and a half minutes--to those stunts. He looked down at
Russ Healy again, and nodded his head.
“The Old Lady flies!” he said slowly, and that settled it.
[Transcriber’s note: This story appeared in the August 1, 1927 issue
of _Top-Notch_ magazine.]
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