The Argosy, Vol. 90 No. 1 — page 29: what you’re looking at

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

THE FLYING CHANCE. stood inertly, wrestling with bitter inde- cision for whole minutes, and then a queer expression, half smile >alf grimness, stole slowly over his face and he crept out of the room. His next movements certainly looked like desertion, urged by desperation and tinged with madness. For, once out of the radio- room, he raced about the yard like one demented. To the sacred precincts of the instrument-room he rushed, and, making some wild explanation to the man in charge, he removed therefrom several of the neat leather cases of queer shapes. Another swift foray procured him a chart. In like manner he borrowed a car from the long, neatly parked line of officers’ private con- veyances. Whose it was he didn’t know, and he didn’t care; only he took the one which seemed to give promise of the great- est speed. Within five minutes of the commandant’s decision he was disobeying for the second time that day his orders to confine himself to the yard. Disobeying with speed and violence, for he was shooting down the long concrete road which led to the main gate: like a dark-red shell. Senior Lieutenant Tracy, the officer of the watch, became aware of the thing hurtling down upon him, and he jumped angrily aside. What fool was breaking yard regulations like that? He recognized Rankin as he whizzed past, and remem- bered the commandant’s order. He called wildly after him, but Rankin never swerved an inch. Bent low over the wheel, he fired himself at the gate. Officers’ cars, of course, were never questioned. The gate opened with profane promptness, and Ran- kin whirled out of his prison. Ten minutes later he was roaring down the road which pointed like a long, straight tape line to Atlantic City. IV. At Atlantic City, on the beach, opposite to the newest ten-million-dollar hotel, stood a huge tent of unusual shape, guyed down and double guyed with wire cable for security. Its occupant and owner was viewing with critical satisfaction the beau- tiful, wide-winged flying-boat which bal- anced so gracefully on its truck, stretching from one far canvas wall right across to the other, when he was suddenly over- whelmed by a breathless young man in a dusty uniform who demanded fiercely: ‘Jim, I want you to give me your bus right away.” This Jim was another of those men whose nerves do not start at sudden and unex- pected happenings. “Sure,” he said without hesitation. ‘‘ Want to go joy riding?” And he held out his hand. “No, no, you don’t understand,” the other panted. ‘I want you to give it to me—to wreck!” Jim’s voice became serious, though the slow smile never left his face. He seated himself methodically on a tool-box. “ Button off the power, Jack; come to earth and tell us all about it,” he said quietly. Jack told him, in fierce sentences and few. ‘“‘ So, you see, Jim, it’s make or break,” he concluded, “ and we’ve got no time to lose. Come on!” Jim sat solid on his tool-box. ‘Wait a minute, Jack,” he said soberly. “This is a big thing you’re asking me. There’s ten thousand dollars gone into this outfit, and it’s all I’ve got in the world; it’s my last stake. Half of it’s not mine, anyhow. I had to get backing, and it’s not nearly paid off. “‘ This passenger work isn’t the gold-mine any more that it used to be; I can’t charge these summer sports more than fifteen dol- lars a jump; upkeep is something fierce; and I’m still in the hole for about three thousand bucks. I figured to clear by the end of the season.” “But don’t you see, Jin,” Rankin ap- pealed piteously, “it’s the only way! And she’s running right into deadly danger! My ship! A United States fighting-ship, Jim. And—and—” His voice trailed away searching hopelessly for something to say, some conclusive argument that would ac- complish his purpose. Jim sat motionless. His face had the torn, introspective expression of Rodin’s ‘ Thinker.” oO comicbooks 23 Presently his voice came in a CO