Читать книгу The Parachute Jumper - Percy Keese Fitzhugh - Страница 5

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All the way to Oakvale, Donovan whistled. Tom enjoyed it immensely and said nothing over the ’phone to break the spell, but vowed to compliment him afterward. It was inspiring.

When they reached the fair grounds Tom gave all his attention to the crowd that was watching below. The place was black with people and as he put the plane in an easy turn he was glad for Donovan’s sake. Those ant-like creatures represented a good many nickels and dimes to the impecunious ’chute jumper, and from the threadbare appearance of his soiled flannel trousers and woolen sweater he could make good use of a thousand dimes.

Tom brought the plane into a gentle spiral so that he could get a better view of the throng. Fifteen hundred people, perhaps more. Donovan ought to do well if every heart down there beat in the right spirit and there was every reason to think that they would.

To begin with, the Oakvale Carnival was a sort of combination scout rally and town anniversary celebration rolled into one. Oakvale was twenty-five years old and its scout troop had been active for fifteen years. Colin Campbell, a national scout figure, was an honored guest and principal speaker and Tom was doing his bit also with the Goodfellow. And Donovan....

Tom smiled again at the thought of him and let the plane climb energetically. They were probably taking up the collection for Donovan right now. The scouts would do that and from vast experience with scouts, Tom knew that they would do it well. If they didn’t get what was coming to them they wouldn’t be scouts.

The Goodfellow climbed and Tom kept a wary eye on his altimeter. He wanted to get two thousand under him, and he glanced over at Oakvale Lake lying serenely beside the fair grounds, narrowing at one end into a sort of cove. There was someone in the cove—a figure in a boat, perhaps a fisherman.

Tom took a little dive in order to get enough speed to carry them over and in doing so noticed that the wind was blowing quite briskly toward the lake. It fairly carried them over without the engine’s help and when they were on an even keel once more he listened at the ’phone and heard Donovan say, “Good boy!”

“Glad you liked it,” Tom said with a hearty chuckle. “Scouts like thrills and this is their day. We’ll give them a real fancy spin. What say?”

“Oke,” answered Donovan and fell to whistling.

Tom laughed, centered his controls and brought the Goodfellow’s nose up quite perkily. When they came rushing out of their dive to an even keel, Donovan breathed, “Hot dog!” through the ’phone.

“Some kid,” Tom thought. “A spirit like that deserves all that those people down there can give.” And through the ’phone he said: “I’ll give them three good loops. It’ll warm their hearts and loosen the purse strings. Eh?”

“You tell ’em,” Donovan agreed lustily.

Tom grasped the throttle and told them, once, twice, three times in graceful loops. He could see the crowd standing motionless, huddled together around the fairground buildings. It seemed to be an auspicious moment.

“Guess you can do your stuff now, kiddo,” Tom said through the ’phone. “All set?”

“Yep,” answered Donovan gaily. “See you b’low.”

“Sure thing. Good luck, kiddo, good luck!”

Tom kept the Goodfellow at an even keel as Donovan crawled out along the wing. The boy was like a monkey, sure-footed as well as sure-handed. Not once did he hesitate. Oh, well, they were all alike, these jumpers. After the first jump it was mere play.

Tom gave the crowd one more glance. Still motionless, with the exception of a few moving figures. He hoped it was the scouts still collecting for Donovan. Funny, how he had taken such a liking to a chap whom he wouldn’t know without his goggles. They’d have to get acquainted later over a glass of watered lemonade and a hot dog.

Tom got a flash of white and from the corner of his eye saw Donovan standing upright and holding on to the stanchion. He fancied that he saw the jumper’s lips part in a gay smile, but could not be certain for the next moment he was gone—into the wind. He had just a fleeting glimpse of the boy’s hand clutched to the handle at his breast.

Tom pushed his stick forward instinctively and quite unconsciously counted from one to five, as if he too were going through that appalling moment before the ’chute opened its silky fabric to the sunlit heavens. When he had finished counting he eased the plane around and cast an apprehensive eye earthward.

But there was no cause for worry—the ’chute had opened.

Tom laughed heartily at his fears and started to cruise around until he could be sure that Donovan was safe on terra firma once more. “You’d think I was a stude or something,” was the way he explained it to himself. “Never thought twice about other jumpers dumping themselves off from my wing. Goodnight, I guess I’ve fallen, hook, line and sinker, for that kid’s good-natured whistle. That’s about what it is.”

Out over the lake he went, chuckling at the crowd surging back and forth below. Donovan was traveling fast now—the wind was rushing him as if he and the ’chute were mere feathers. It didn’t look so favorable after all.

Tom gave the parachute an anxious glance and saw that for a moment it was inclined to take Donovan straight down on the fair grounds. But the wind was stronger and although the jumper might be using every bit of strength he had to pull the ropes landward, it would be of no avail. The wind was carrying him straight toward the lake.

Tom hovered anxiously over the sunlit water and saw that the people, too, were a little apprehensive. They were surging toward the lake. Then the ’chute swept out and for a second seemed to hang precariously in mid-air. Another second and it was borne along toward the cove and out of the crowd’s sight.

Tom’s heart beat a furious rat-tat-tat against his breast as he saw the parachute dropping steadily down, down, down into the waters of the cove. But, what was that figure moving down there? Oh, yes. He remembered, hopefully.

The lone fisherman. Would he save the jumper? Or didn’t the poor kid stand a ghost of a chance? Tom blinked and turned the Goodfellow’s nose around. The crowd was still at the water’s edge and it gave him plenty of room for a landing. The quicker the better.

He made a few hurried spirals and called himself a fool. It was all in the game—Donovan was nothing to him, and a professional jumper at that, but nevertheless he could hardly see to gauge his landing, the tears so blurred his eyes. Then he shut down the motor.

“It’s a great life,” he murmured grimly as he planted his feet firmly on the rudder bar. And added: “If you don’t weaken.”