King Horn suddenly jumped upon his seat, planted one foot on the rim of the cockpit and scrambled up onto the thick wing of the monoplane. There was not a single grip for hands and feet on the top of that rounded and sloping plane, but King Horn, crouching on hands and knees, transferred his knife to his right hand and leaned into the wind and waved Scoggins on again. “Come on!” he muttered. “Pass me that gas!” The biplane dipped lower and the bulky can swung like a giant pendulum toward King Horn. He leaped to his feet and met the sweep of the can with his chest. His left hand whipped around it while his right slashed savagely at the rope that bound it to the biplane. He felt his toes lifting on the wing. An instant later he was flat on the plane with the can clutched in his arms. He looked up, as the biplane veered hastily away from the giant ship down below. Lyle Tennant was leaning far over the edge of her cockpit with her frightened eyes upon him. He grinned up at her reassuringly. She essayed an answering smile; then with a mighty effort lifted another can into his view. King Horn nodded. His hands were already unscrewing the cap of one of the wing tanks. He looked down again, into his own control cockpit. Franklin Cross sat there, rigid, immovable. His hands rested upon the wheel as if they held a very fragile egg. The ship was still in the glide. The motors still turned on the last of the gas. The water of the bay was much closer than it had been before. “Doing fine!” King Horn shouted at the aviation editor. “Once more and we’re set!” He upended the can and sent the five gallons of gasoline gushing into the gravity tank. Five gallons--good for seven and a half minutes’ time at cruising speed! “Just once more, Lyle!” he muttered. The biplane was drawing in again. King dropped the empty can. It was whisked off the wing by the ceaseless blast of air and spun astern, dwindling to nothingness as it fell. King steadied himself for another effort. Again Syd Scoggins jockeyed the biplane closer. Again King’s eyes followed unwinkingly the sway and jerk of the suspended can. Then the vagary of the wind and a touch of the biplane’s throttle sent it suddenly swooping toward him. Facing backward, he met the swinging can with his chest again. But this time it was coming like a projectile. It thudded on his ribs and he felt the wing disappear beneath his feet. For an instant, with both desperate hands gripping the can, he was in free air. Then, with a crash, he fell upon something solid. He writhed about; found that the can had knocked him off the wing into the cockpit. He had landed half upon Cross and half on the empty seat. The can was still there. Lyle had cut the rope at her end. If the can had swung a bit harder or if it had not been released it would have knocked him overboard or into the propeller of the center engine.