Adventure Magazine Cover — page 132: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

130 stands about eighteen inches above the sur- face of the wing. Stunt-men, weaving their feet and shins among these struts and wires, manage to stand upright—hands free—and face the wind. Such a position Bugs now took. Half-facing to the rear, he waved Loop to take him off. This change from plane to plane was the thing they did best. So Loop dropped back a few yards and shifted to the left of my plane. When the tip of his right wing was just behind and above the tip of my left, he forged ahead once more. For a minute, then, I watched him crowd alongside; at the same time, I watched Aerial dangle, smile and wave; twist and turn in the wind and wave. Al- ways game! The crazy little mutt for monkeying with aviation and getting her- self in for this! Now the planes were wing to wing. I was under orders and straight ahead. Loop was leaning over the side of his cockpit and forcing his right lower wing right into Bugs’ hand. Bugs was reaching out and just about to take the wing when— Over arid country, the air, as a rule, is very smooth. Over green country, or coun- try that is a mixture of the arid and fertile, the going is likely to be very bumpy. Com- ing into position, we had been flying over the arid land to the east of town. The second that Bugs reached back to take the other wing, we flew across an irrigation ditch on the edge of town, and a bump blew the planes apart. The kid weaved and staggered to retain his footing—then fell sprawling along the trailing edge of the wing. I saw his hands and arms come through the lower surface of the wing’s bottom-side linen as he clawed and fought for a handhold. But he stayed. And I was sweating blood! A kick, you say? Yes, and then some. I wouldn’t repeat that minute for a mythical movie salary. It was more time wasted; and all our time, I knew, was gone. Loop’s plane must have been flying on its reputation—not gasoline. When the ships came into position then, we were out over the hot dry land again. There would be no more mistakes. Set for another try, young Bugs posed like a man of steel; Loop hung out a little farther to the right of his cockpit and wore an expression T’ll never see on a human face again— And Aerial dangled and turned; waved, twisted and lurched. Smiled. ANDREW A. CAFFREY I had only one thing to ask, one hope, one prayer—that Loop’s gas would hold out— mine didn’t. My propeller stopped—dead. Not for a minute had I given my own gasoline a thought; when the motor quit, my heart action followed suit. Bugs, at that moment, was just reaching out for his second try. Thirty seconds more and he would have boarded the other plane. But when your power fails—you can’t hang there for thirty seconds. If you desire to go on living in this air game there is only one thing to do when a motor konks—start down, and right now. Watch your motor— is the first law of flying. I’ve always re- spected and religiously obeyed that law. For the average circus flyer, the conserva- tion of gasoline is paramount and its pro- curement no small problem. It’s like own- ing a large car on a small salary; aviation motors simply glut themselves on gas. A few days before, as I learned later, Aerial had flown that plane up from Los Angeles and neglected to refill the gas tank. Take a chance!—that’s the slogan of all circus flyers. They do. Dangling there and watching, that neglect must have come home to Aerial with a bang. When our power stopped and we glided away from Loop, Bugs, in a flash, darted a look of condemnation my way, then discov- ered the motionless propeller. He grew a little steelier and turned back to Loop; waved him to come on. The other plane, as soon as Loop realized my helplessness, followed down in hot pursuit. As the nar- rowing gap between planes closed again, Aerial smiled and the kid forced a grim one in return. Then minutes and men fought; and men won. My motor had gone into retirement at about the twenty-five hundred foot level. At two thousand—perhaps a minute later— the planes were together, wing to wing, and Bugs reached a handhold at the base of Loop’s outer left front strut and scrambled aboard. His passage along that lower wing and back to the body of the plane was phantom- like, something to wonder at—and terrify- ing. The kid had never been cautious, now he was stark mad. He reached the body of the plane; then, sliding through the flying wires, dropped to the landing gear from which the parachute was angling. Flatten- ing out, belly along the axle spreader-board, he fell to work: slowly, handful after GOMIGIOO S (©