But it hadn’t. King pulled himself up. The ship was diving earthward now; his fall had flung Cross against the wheel. King grabbed the other wheel and pulled it back. The water of the bay seemed leaping upward, catching at their wheels, but the ship’s nose raised and the defeated bay dropped away below them. King slipped into the seat, revivified the congealed Cross with a triumphant smile and went after altitude. With a thousand feet under them, he gave Cross the wheel again, mounted the wing and poured the other can into the tank. Then he turned the plane toward Long Island and safety. The biplane winged on ahead. King followed slowly. He had to stretch that gas and slow speed was the only way to do it. Once, remembering his passengers, he turned around to smile reassuringly into the cabin where the board of directors sat. One of them was unconscious; two others ministered to him, but Mr. Winship met King’s eye. The dignified financier shook hands with himself in most fervent pantomime. King Horn looked sideways at the still blanched countenance of Franklin Cross. Cross had been game enough in the pinch but now he was not far from fainting. “This transport business is great stuff,” King Horn confided, “but I don’t know that my nerves will stand it.” “Great work,” Cross said with a shiver. King Horn grinned. “Sinful recklessness,” he declared. “I’d have risked a forced landing if I’d still been in the stunt business.” “You aren’t in the stunt business.” “Think the old man will give me a job?” Franklin Cross nodded stiffly. “He will tomorrow, if he doesn’t today,” he said. “You mean--we’d better have an ambulance handy when he hears who he’s been flying with?” King asked. “Not just that,” Cross answered. His eyes glistened. He seemed to be thinking about something. At the field Lyle was waiting--a pale-lipped, trembling Lyle in need of comfort and reassurance. * * * * * It was not until the next day that King Horn understood what Cross’ reticence had meant. King and Lyle were very busy talking to each other the rest of that Sunday, nor did King read the morning newspapers next day before seeking out Lyle again. Consequently it was the thin little aviation editor who brought the _Era’s_ story to King Horn’s attention. Swinging his stick with a casual air, Franklin Cross walked across Tennant’s field and bowed with a certain awkwardness before Lyle. “My wedding present,” he mumbled and handed her a paper. “And my reparation for the other stories,” he added, looking at King. Then he walked away across the field, trying to swing his stick with a casual air. There was in the _Era_ a story--a front-page story. But it was not about the Ace of Deuces--the wild man of the air. It was how Winship, the great financier and keen judge of men had entrusted his life and his associates’ lives to an unknown pilot merely on his looks.