FROM THE HEIGHTS
Hammersley’s shot must have missed. He looked around at Doris and laughed, and she saw the light of triumph that rode in his eyes. The exhaust was roaring steadily now, but with one hand on the wheel and in the other his automatic, Hammersley sat motionless, watching the slits in the canvas for the men that he knew must come in a moment. At a gesture of his, Doris sank low in the cockpit, her hands on the wheel, watching, too, and ready to do her share as Cyril had directed. One—two minutes passed—she seemed to be counting the seconds. The body of the machine was trembling as though with the excitement of the moment and the explosions had blended into one continuous roar. Cyril threw the clutch in and the note lowered as the propellers began to whirr. The huge fabric jumped forward, gathering momentum as it went, until by the time it reached the canvas curtain in front of it, it was going as fast as a man would run. The weight of the heavy flap retarded it for a moment, but it went steadily on, and the canvas was pushed outward—then rose—it seemed to Doris like the curtain on a melodrama. Men were running up, shooting as they ran. They clutched at the toggles and swung off their feet, falling in a heap upon the ground. She saw a man, the only one not in uniform, take hold of the lower plane and try to stop the momentum. It was John Rizzio. She saw his face for a second, dark, handsome, smiling. Cyril rose in his seat and their weapons streamed fire. Rizzio moved backward with the machine, still clinging to the lower plane, and then disappeared, passing under it, just where the blades of the right-hand propeller were.
A slight shock and a shapeless mass went rolling over and over until it brought up motionless against
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