King Horn’s eyes leaped to an instrument beside his seat that he had not thus far consulted--the gasoline manifold installation, with two visible-type fuel gauges. They told him at a glance that one tank in the big wing above him was empty and the other had in it about two gallons of gas--enough for about three minutes more in the air. The mechanics at the Grand Trunk Airway field had sent him away with almost empty tanks. Another hand touched his shoulder. He looked around. Mr. Winship had left his seat and come forward. “I--that other machine reminds me that we were waiting for the gasoline tank wagon when--when the accident occurred,” he said. “Thanks,” said King Horn, somewhat grimly. “Please go back and sit down. Keep your friends sitting down, too.” He encountered Cross’ agitated eyes. “Th-that mechanic certainly t-told you the ship was all set,” the aviation editor stammered. “I--I remember now---” He glanced distrustfully over the side. The city looked much more solid and stony than it had before. King Horn shook his head. “It’s up to me,” he said tersely. “I was too quick getting away before somebody blurted out my name.” He was already throttling down and heading the ship into the south wind, toward the bay. He adjusted the stabilizer control for a flat glide, with idling engines. As he prepared, he was wishing that he had aboard no cargo of old men, too brittle-boned to stand a rough, forced landing and too likely to drown or to catch pneumonia if he picked the bay. A mere mishap for youth would be a certain tragedy for them. Unless---- Glancing up at the biplane, which was behind the bigger ship. King Horn motioned Syd Scoggins to come on. “Look here,” King said rapidly to Franklin Cross. “I know you’re not a pilot, but now’s a healthy time to learn. Sit at that wheel. If she dives pull the wheel an inch or two toward you; If she shows less speed on that air-speed meter than is there now, push the wheel away a bit. That’s all. If she should sideslip--never mind that. Remember! Dive--pull! Stall--push! Get it?” Franklin Cross nodded. His tongue was busy moistening his lips. King Horn stood up. “If I go--let her glide as she is,” he said. The wind tugged at his leather jacket and drummed upon the earflaps of his helmet. He paid no heed. All his attention was upon the biplane above. The tip of Manhattan Island drifted under them. The circus ship drew closer overhead. Under it, swinging in the puffy air above the city, dangled the five-gallon can of gas. King Horn pulled out his pocket knife, opened it and gripped it between his teeth. He waved again and the biplane, gaining slowly on the idling monoplane, drew down so close that the heavy can seemed almost to menace the ship below it.