CHAPTER THREE
Tim yelled until it seemed his lungs would burst but the roar of theLark's own powerful motor drowned out his cries. Finally Ralph, who hadbeen working desperately in the cockpit of his own plane, looked up athis chum. Death was staring him in the face, but there was no hint offear in the eyes that gazed at Tim.
The flying reporter signalled Ralph to reach for the lever which openedthe emergency gas tank. If there was fuel in the reserve tank, the motormight catch again and they would have another chance.
The lever which controlled the valve of the emergency tank was on theother side of the cockpit and Tim, hanging on his precarious perch,watched his chum strain to reach it. Ralph lunged toward the lever andhis outstretched hands knocked it open. The fuel flooded down into thecarburetor and hissed into the red hot cylinders. With a quiver theengine of the training plane came to life.
Tim couldn't restrain a shout as he saw Ralph gain control of the planeagain.
Hunter lost no time in bringing the ships together and the Lark creptdown and over the upper wing of Ralph's plane.
Tim steeled himself for the attempt. He had never tried to change fromone plane to another but he had watched the stunt a dozen times. Thefeat looked easy then, but actually to attempt it with a friend's lifein the balance was an entirely different thing.
Just ahead Tim could see the flashing arc of the propeller of Ralph'splane. If Hunter misjudged the distance, if they struck a bump, if--ifany one of half a dozen things happened he might be thrown into thedeadly whirl. But Hunter was a master pilot and----
Before Tim's madly racing mind could conjure up other thoughts they wereover Ralph's plane. Six feet, five feet, four feet separated the undercarriage of the Lark from the upper wing of the training ship. Timreleased his hold on the axle.
The next moment the air was forced from his lungs as he sprawled againstthe surface of the wing. His desperately reaching fingers hookedthemselves over the wires along the upper edge of the wing and he wassafe.
Tim was stiff from the cold and bruised by his fall but he swiftly madehis way in from the tip of the wing and crawled down into the forwardcockpit. His action was not a moment too soon for the supply of fuel inthe reserve tank was exhausted. He grabbed the dual controls in theforward cockpit and within thirty seconds had set the plane down on thefield. Hunter, who had beaten him down, ran toward him and together theyclambered into the rear cockpit.
Ralph's face was drawn with lines of pain.
"I guess I've made a supreme mess of things," he gritted, before theycould ask him what had happened.
A doctor who had been summoned by one of the mechanics when Tim andHunter went aloft, shoved Hunter aside and slipped into the cockpitbeside Ralph, whose legs, useless, were doubled under him.
"Here you chaps," called the doctor, "help me lift this boy out ofhere." Together they hoisted Ralph out of the cockpit and carried himinto the office where they laid him on a cot in Hunter's room.
The doctor's examination required only a few minutes and he was smilingwhen he turned to the others in the room.
"Nothing serious," he reassured them. "When he had that crackup thismorning he bruised his legs pretty badly and also strained his back. Thereaction took place this afternoon and resulted in a temporary paralysisof the legs. Keep him good and warm for an hour or two and he'll be O.K. His legs may be a little sore and stiff for a day or two but that'sall."
The doctor picked up his things and departed. When he had gone, Ralphlooked up at Tim, his eyes clouded with grief.
"I'm sorry I'm such a flop, Tim," he said. "I tried hard to make goodbecause you told Carson I could do it."
"Make good?" exclaimed Tim. "Why Ralph, you're a flyer if ever there wasone. It takes nerves and brains to do what you did this afternoon tokeep a ship aloft with your legs paralyzed and your gas supply dwindlingdown to nothing. Believe me, that was flying."
The cold winds of winter had been replaced by the warmer breezes ofearly spring and clouds that had been heavy with snow unleashed theirburden of rain. It was poor weather for flying and Tim, after checkingover his plane, was preparing to leave the airport.
The deep humming of a powerful motor attracted his attention and heturned toward the sound. Out of the low gray clouds in the west a blackmonoplane flashed into view. It was coming fast and low. The craft shotover the field and as it flashed by, Tim noted that it was a dull black.The fact that there were no numbers indicating its department ofcommerce rating troubled him. Then the pilot of the unknown plane bankedsharply, and with motor on full, sped back over the field.
An arm flashed over the edge of the fuselage and a white object floateddown. Tim splashed across the muddy field and retrieved the letter fromthe puddle in which it had fallen. By that time the black plane haddisappeared with only a faint drumming of its motor to tell of itspassing.
The flying reporter held the letter gingerly. When he turned it over hewas astounded to find that it was addressed to him. On the envelope, ina rough scrawl, were the words, "For Tim Murphy."
Tim tore open the envelope and extracted the single sheet of plainpaper. The words were few but they burned their way into his mind.
"Murphy," he read, "you've spoiled my game once. Don't do it again." Itwas signed, "The Sky Hawk."
A queer feeling, certainly not that of fear, yet hardly that of elation,held Tim for a moment. So he had crossed the path of the Sky Hawk, thefamous bandit who had been terrorizing the airways of the east. Timsmiled a little grimly. So far he had always been able to take care ofhimself and he had won his first tilt with the sky robber.
Stories about the Sky Hawk had been front page news some months beforewhen he had staged a number of daring aerial holdups on eastern airways,but recently he had disappeared, which accounted for the failure tofirst connect him with the robbery of the Transcontinental Air Mail.There were many tales about the Sky Hawk. Some were that he was asuper-flyer, a famous World war ace who had gone wrong; others had himleading a desperate band of aerial gunmen. One thing Tim knew; if theSky Hawk had been piloting the plane which had attacked the mail, he hada number of accomplices.
The flying reporter walked over to the manager's office and laid theletter on Hunter's desk.
"I was afraid of something like that," said the airport chief when hefinished reading the note. "The possibility of the Sky Hawk had occurredto me before but I thought I'd get laughed off the field if I mentionedit. You'll take good care of yourself, won't you, Tim?"
"Sure, Carl, and while I'm here I want to find out what you know aboutthis flying circus that blew in a couple of weeks ago. Why didn't theystop at your field?"
"They landed here first but when they found we charged a percentage onall passengers carried, they pulled out and rented a pasture on theother side of town."
"Guess I'll drift over that way," said Tim. "There may be a story."
The flying reporter took the office car he had used to come down to thefield and fifteen minutes later had skirted the edge of the city andreached a level tract of land where several canvas hangars had beenerected. A sign over the gate announced that the "Ace Company" was readyfor business. Tim turned his car from the main road and into the field.There was no one on duty at the gate and he started for one of thehangars where he could hear men at work.
He was about to push aside the canvas flap when a burly mechanic fairlyjumped out of the tent.
"What you doing here?" he bawled.
"Just looking around," replied Tim. "I'm Murphy of the News?"
"Oh, so you're Murphy of the News?" mimicked the mechanic. "Well, wedon't want any flying snoopers sticking their noses in here. Now get outand stay out!"
Tim appraised the mechanic. He was six feet or better and weighed a goodtwo hundred pounds. To try to argue with him would be foolhardy and Timturned and started for his car.
Halfway to the car he paused for a moment, a peculiar mark on the softturf of the field attracting his attention.
It was the mark of atailskid and from its clean-cut appearance, must have been made withinthe last hour!