The Argosy, Vol. 90 No. 1 — page 23: what you’re looking at

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

THE FLYING CHANCE. “What? Killed?” “ That’s it.. What do you know of Miss Van Allen?” “Nothing, except that she lives here. Quiet young lady. Nothin’ to be said vgainst her. Who’s the man?” “Don’t know, except he’s named Somers; R. Somers.” _ 7 “Never heard of him. Where’s Miss Van Allen?” “ Skipped.” ‘What’s that you say? Skipped! Why that little thoroughbred can’t be mixed up in a shootin’!”’ 17 “He isn’t shot. Stabbed. With a _ kitchen-knife.” ‘ Let’s see him.” The coroner and Ferrall went toward the dining-room, and, on an irresistible impulse of curiosity, I followed. ‘“ Him!” exclaimed Ferrail, as he caught sight of the dead man’s features. ‘ That ain’t no Somers. That’s Randolph Schuy- ler.” “What!” “Sure it is. Schuyler, the millionaire. His home is on Fifth Avenue, around the corner and only half a block down.” (To be continued NEXT WEEK.) navy-yard looked up from the sheaf of papers which bore the super- scription of the Bureau of Naval Affairs, Washington, at the young man who stood at attention before his desk. “Tm sorry, Mr. Rankin,” he said simply. The brown, alert face showed no sur- prise. Ensign Rankin belonged to those men who cannot afford to be easily shaken from their balance, but his passionate ar- gument was already on his lips. “But why?” he cried. “Why? I passed in everything else. My sense of balance was perfect. My nerve reactions § ie commandant of the Philadelphia were A No. 1. My blood pressure, hearing, everything! Only those paltry two points I fell short in.” Official dignity relaxed just a trifle before the bitterness of the young man’s disap- pointment. ‘“T’m_ sorry,” the commandant - said again. ‘“‘ But this flying business is dan- gerous enough as it is without our adding to it by overlooking the slightest imperfec- tion in the human machine. ‘The service ‘requires a full twenty in eyesight, and your test measures up only eighteen. Therefore you have been judged ‘ unfit’for aviation.’ ” The hundred and sixty pounds of hard, lean athlete stiffened yet further with the fighting spirit. — “Then, with your permission, sir, I shall Comicbooe S CO