Chapter VII · THE ONLY WAY TO SETTLE IT.

When I got up beside the Old Lady, Russ Healy was leaning against a wheel and smoking a cigarette. Bob Brooks was limping around, trying out his left leg, and muttering to himself. Conant was standing near by, and scribbling on a piece of oblong paper with a fountain pen.

“Hello there, rough boy!” Russ greeted me cheerfully. His head was bandaged, and a medical-appearing gentleman was putting more white stuff around his left wrist and hand. “Can the Old Lady fly?”

I grunted. She wasn’t as complete a wreck as I’d expected to see, and there was a reason. The shell hole was filled with nice, soft sand!

“She could fly!” I replied.

Bob Brooks limped over my way. “They put one over on us, Mac!” he said. “They shot all sorts of stuff. They used our planes, their planes—and then even used me!”

I couldn’t help but grin.

Then the red-faced, golf-togged Conant came over and waved a check toward Bob. “This should help,” the director said. “We had to have your planes. Can’t use all of it, of course. You weren’t rigged with guns and stuff. But it’ll help—in the flashes. Is it all right?”

Bob took the check, and I looked over his shoulder. We both gasped together. As a check it was a masterpiece.

“It’s—all right!” Bob managed to say.

Conant chuckled. “Had to have the stuff!” he said. “Needed our ships—all I could scrape together—for the cameras. Most of them, anyway. Of course, I’ll take care of Healy——”

Russ grinned. Then his face sobered. He glared at Bob Brooks.

“How about it?” he asked. “Can the Old Lady fly? Does she get fixed up—and do I sky-ride her with the outfit?”

Bob Brooks looked up at the sky, and I could see that he was thinking back about four and a half minutes—to those stunts. He looked down at Russ Healy again, and nodded his head.

“The Old Lady flies!” he said slowly, and that settled it.

Transcriber’s note: This story appeared in the August 1, 1927 issue of Top-Notch magazine.