Part 2

And I saw why the girl hadn’t jumped. Dangling from her back, hanging over the trailing edge of the upper wing surface, was her ’chute pack. Even as I watched her right hand groped toward the harness, tried to find that rip-cord ring.

“Too late now!” I groaned. “Less than eight hundred feet--”

And then, suddenly, it happened. Once before I’d seen the same thing happen. And that had been in France. There was a jerking of the two ships--they drifted apart! The spin had flung them apart!

The camera-plane went instantly into a side-slip. I kicked around furiously, tried to watch the Old Lady. She nosed down, her left wing dropping under the weight of the girl. Then her nose came up, just as I thought she was going into a final spin--her left wing came up, too. I heard the roar of her exhausts. The Old Lady was trying to fly--was trying to fly out of it!

There was a second crash as the camera-plane struck the field. I flexed my legs--seventeen feet a second was my drop-speed. The force of a ten-foot drop would be my landing jolt. The earth came up--I struck heavily, rolled over once, crawled out from beneath the collapsing silk spread.

It took me ten seconds to get out from the harness. And as I freed myself--the Old Lady came in!

She was headed into the wind. Her fuselage, near the rear cockpit, was battered. The fabric was in shreds. But she was flying. And as her exhaust roar died, and her wheels and tail-skid touched the clipped grass, I raised my eyes. Still clinging to the wood loop, on the upper surface of the right wing, was the girl. The Old Lady had brought her down!

* * * * *

We were grouped around Miss West. She was pale, and she spoke in a voice that was slightly shaken. But she spoke bravely. She was that kind.

“The crash came just as I lifted myself up over the wing surface of the Jenny. It nearly knocked me loose--twisted me around. I hung on, though--pulled myself up. But I ripped the ’chute pack loose from part of its harness. I wanted to get clear--couldn’t find the rip-ring. So I lay there--and waited. You know the rest.”

Bob Brooks nodded his head. Steve Lott said excitedly:

“Lord, it was close! I wanted to get in, get a perfect shot for the camera. We hit a bump--and I tried to zoom. But we crashed before she nosed up. All three ships got it. We’ll stand the loss, of course--but--”

He stopped. He was too shaken to go on. The girl’s eyes were on Russ Healy, who was frowning.

“I’m sorry!” she said simply. “No use saying what I think--you _know_. Man--that battered crate is--” She stopped, groped for a word, found it--“wonderful! Can she fly? I’m here--to tell you _she can_!”

* * * * *

Russ smiled, but he didn’t say much. Later, while he was patching up the fuselage of the Old Lady, I caught him alone. It had been a tight jam for all of us. Two planes gone--and three of us using ’chutes. No pictures, of course. All smashed--all that had been taken. But if it hadn’t been for Russ--and the Old Lady-- Well, Joan West wouldn’t laugh _that_ way again at a battered plane.

I told Russ that, and then I asked a question. It had been worrying me a bit.

“Supposing things had gone right, Russ--what were you figuring on doing with the girl? How were you going to prove--”

Russ Healy grinned. “Mac,” he said slowly, “I wasn’t going to do a thing. What in hell _could_ I do? That kid had nerve.”

I chuckled. Russ Healy throwing a bluff! It was almost funny.

“She had nerve,” he repeated grimly, “and believe me, Mac, that’s what you’ve got to have--when it comes to picture stuff!”

[Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the March, 1928 issue of _Blue Book_ magazine.]