Chapter VII: The Only Way to Settle It

When I got up beside the Old Lady, Russ Healy was leaning against a wheel and smoking a cigarette. Bob Brooks was limping around, trying out his left leg, and muttering to himself. Conant was standing near by, and scribbling on a piece of oblong paper with a fountain pen.

“Hello there, rough boy!” Russ greeted me cheerfully. His head was bandaged, and a medical-appearing gentleman was putting more white stuff around his left wrist and hand. “Can the Old Lady fly?”

I grunted. She wasn’t as complete a wreck as I’d expected to see, and there was a reason. The shell hole was filled with nice, soft sand!

“She _could_ fly!” I replied.

Bob Brooks limped over my way. “They put one over on us, Mac!” he said. “They shot all sorts of stuff. They used our planes, their planes--and then even used _me_!”

I couldn’t help but grin.

Then the red-faced, golf-togged Conant came over and waved a check toward Bob. “This should help,” the director said. “We _had_ to have your planes. Can’t use all of it, of course. You weren’t rigged with guns and stuff. But it’ll help--in the flashes. Is it all right?”

Bob took the check, and I looked over his shoulder. We both gasped together. As a check it was a masterpiece.

“It’s--all right!” Bob managed to say.

Conant chuckled. “Had to have the stuff!” he said. “Needed our ships--all I could scrape together--for the cameras. Most of them, anyway. Of course, I’ll take care of Healy----”

Russ grinned. Then his face sobered. He glared at Bob Brooks.

“How about it?” he asked. “Can the Old Lady fly? Does she get fixed up--and do I sky-ride her with the outfit?”

Bob Brooks looked up at the sky, and I could see that he was thinking back about four and a half minutes--to those stunts. He looked down at Russ Healy again, and nodded his head.

“The Old Lady flies!” he said slowly, and that settled it.

[Transcriber’s note: This story appeared in the August 1, 1927 issue of _Top-Notch_ magazine.]