The wheels of the plane touched the oval, but likewise the end wall seemed rushing to meet the charge. Frank set his teeth, worked the tail, and the big machine swung gracefully in a circle, the outer wing not a foot from the stone wall above which rose the tiers of seats, and came to rest. From the middle where he had thrown himself flat on the sand while Frank executed his maneuvre, Bob regaining his feet sprang for the plane. “In with you, quick,” cried Stone, lending a hand, and Bob half-clambered, half was dragged into the rear pit. Frank pressed the starter, and the engine, still on compression, resumed operations with a roar. “Hold your noses,” yelled Roy Stone, “I smell the gas.” Sweetish acrid fumes, in fact, were in their nostrils. Frank set the plane in motion down the arena, himself immune because of his mask, while the others sat with noses pinched between thumb and forefinger and eyes screwed shut. Down the sand tore the plane and when near the platform in the center it began to lift. Up, up, it went, yet not as swiftly as Frank could have wished. As the far end of the Coliseum was approached, he experienced a sick panic that they would not be able to rise fast enough to clear the banked-up seats. Banking as steeply as possible, he began to swing obliquely, and this maneuvre, dangerous to equilibrium, though it was at such a low altitude, and before speed had been picked up, had the desired effect. The widening arc of the Coliseum gave him just enough room for operations so that as he drew near the side he was able to drag the plane over the top tier of seats. Yet how little room there was to spare was brought home to all with ominous significance, for, as they cleared the top of the lofty stone seats, there came a shock, and a quiver shook the plane which caused Frank to struggle desperately. The next moment they were free and mounting rapidly and the danger was passed. “We bumped with our wheels,” cried Stone. “Don’t see ’em behind us, so I guess they weren’t torn off, but you’ll have a sweet time landing.” A little nod of the head was all Frank’s reply. What cared he about a messy landing? He could manage not to hurt anybody seriously. And any damage to the plane would be more than compensated for by Mr. Hampton. The big thing was that Bob was safe, safe; that he, Frank, had been able to fly a plane in and out of the Coliseum and rescue his big chum. A hand closing hard on his shoulder from the rear sent a thrill throughout his body, and a bellowing voice shouted: “Got your message, old kid. Knew you could do it.” That was all, but that was enough. No matter what praise others might bestow, Frank cared naught.