Hike had always to be ready to coax the _Hustle_ up again, when she struck an air-pocket and fell like an elevator with a broken cable. He had to guess at what sort of currents were ahead of him, and be ready to round each tiny whirlwind as soon as he felt it slap at the planes. He was too busy to be frightened, ever. Poodle had more time for that. Poodle kept the aeronautical map moving from one roller to another; he swung the search-light’s glare from hill to valley, and looked after the flow of oil from its tank to the distributing pipes, but mostly he sat there and watched the world jump up at them from below. Half a dozen times, when they seemed to be dashing down to the rocky ground, he felt quite certain they were killed, and wondered how he could jump and save himself. Just the same, he kept up a grin, for Hike to see when he glanced back, and, whenever Poodle slapped his arms to keep warm, he tried to be as cheery a clown as possible, so that “good ole Hike’ll have somethin’ ’appy to look at.” He busied himself with heating some coffee and broth, on the electric stove at the side of the platform, and made Hike gulp down a little of it. It was a bit curious to look down from the bubbling aluminum coffee-pot to a valley a thousand feet below, glaring in the search-light. When the sky grew light with dawn, in front of them, and the hills looked cheerless in the early gray, Hike called Poodle to the seat beside him, and gave him the last of several lessons in aviation. Finally, he let Poodle drive her, for a while. Leaning against a pile of blankets and food on the platform, he stretched out his cramped legs, for a short rest. The clouds promised rain and a bad wind, so Hike soon took the levers again. He made out by his map, soon after dawn, that they were over Kansas. They were coming to the end of the hilly country, into the plains; speeding over a hundred miles an hour. Hike was just planning to push her up to a hundred and fifty an hour when he made out something that caused him to swoop closer to earth, and hastily slow her down, with his foot-throttle. The shock almost threw Poodle out of his seat, and sent a can of coffee hurtling across the freight-platform. Hike had seen a man and woman, ahead of them, riding madly across a stretch of prairie, toward a river. Pursuing them were a dozen men, also on horseback, shouting and shooting. The man and woman were not over half a mile ahead, and the pursuers were gaining. Hike dropped, stopped his motor, landed just ahead of the fleeing couple, on a butte overlooking a deep narrow cut through which a river, swollen by recent rain, was raging. As the _Hustle_ landed, the storm broke out in thunder. The fleeing couple galloped up, shouting through the rain, “Help us!” “What’s matter?” cried Poodle. “Get aboard!”