Then East Point came in sight, and proved to be a pleasant surprise. It was larger than Herkimer, despite having no railroad, and the wide main street was shaded with towering trees. It was set at the base of a mountain, and for a half mile westward small cleared fields occupied the tiny valley floor. There were small ploughed fields on the mountainsides, too, gleaming white against the green of the woods. Hemingwood, scrutinizing the ground closely, finally found a field, although it was not as near town as he would have liked. It was a long, narrow grass clearing just below the crest of the mountain behind East Point, on the slope opposite the town. Four miles east of the clearing there was a small settlement which was not on his map. He throttled the motor to a thousand revolutions a minute and dropped down for a look. He could see the residents of East Point popping forth from their houses for a look at the visitor from the sky. There would be some excitement down there, he soliloquized. He noticed a solitary horseman toiling up the road from East Point to that settlement, whatever its name was. The road led past his prospective landing place, which would make transportation of gas and oil a simple matter. The field lay north and south, with an eastern slope. It was surrounded by towering trees on three sides, but to the north, where the road skirted it, there was a good approach. He swooped down within ten feet of the ground and flashed across it for a detailed inspection. It rolled slightly and the grass was four or five inches long. A few rocks protruded from the vegetation, but the middle of the clearing seemed to be without obstacles. He decided immediately to try it. As he zoomed upward and turned northward to land over the road he looked around at the imperturbable Apperson. He pointed down at the field, and Apperson removed his pipe and nodded. Not in approval; merely understanding. Apperson considered everything in the photo section as his business, except flying. This he left entirely to Hemingwood. If his chief had indicated the Ohio River as a landing place, Apperson would have nodded. Hemingwood came in low over the thin fringe of trees, cutting the motor gradually. The heavy ship had almost lost speed when it was over the road, and was mushing downward. Hemingwood stabbed the throttle ahead for a second as the DeHaviland settled over the fence. The spurt of power held the nose up a second more, and the stick was back in his lap when the ship hit on three points in a hard stall landing. It rolled with slackening speed up a small hump in the field, picked up again as it rolled down the other side, and stopped at the top of the second fold, a safe hundred yards from the southern boundary. It was flying as perfect as it was unconsciously skillful. Hemingwood gave it the gun and taxied to the fence. He turned off the gasoline feed, ran the motor out, and clicked off the switches.