It was none too soon. My arms and legs were quivering from fright and exhaustion, and before the plane could come to a stop, they abruptly gave way and I rolled off on the ground. The tail skid handed me a vicious bump in passing, and I lay there desperately sick, while everything continued to whirl madly around and my ears rang like a set of chimes. The major in command of the field came driving up to me with his car, and I will never forget the mixture of relief and anger on his face when he picked me up. He took me home, where Father was trying to calm Mother and Frank, both of whom were nearly hysterical. They were so glad to see me alive and all in one piece that I escaped a scolding that day. But my father and the major agreed that if we boys were ever caught on the field again, we were to be marched home, there to receive a sound walloping. Needless to say, these orders were strictly obeyed for a time, although the flyers patted me on the back and told me I was a “nervy little brat” whenever they saw me around home. However, I had lost all desire to steal any more airplane rides, or even to go aloft as an authorized passenger. In fact, since that day the farthest I have been off the ground was to take the elevator to the top of the Woolworth Tower in order to please some friends of mine who were showing me the sights of New York. [Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the June 1929 issue of Blue Book Magazine.]