the sun. Of course I saw nothing but glare; but I knew that Pete Logan, our best pilot of all, had got "it" too. But Pete had managed to jump clear before the spinning fall of his biplane involved him. Pete, apparently, would survive and have something to tell.
I ran to the right of him, circled and gazed down. On the placid, sparkling blue of the sea was a white splash with a white circle swelling away from it. There, I knew, Pete's plane had plunged, as Kent's had crashed yesterday and Selby's before him.
Again I scanned the sky which was empty, except for Pete gently swinging on his cords as the morning breeze blew along his parachute. High up, much higher, at fifteen thousand feet drifted a few feathers of clouds; eastward, blindingly, glared the sun at which Pete gestured now and then.
While he blew along, he descended, of course; and I dropped, pointing my nose beyond the splash of Pete's plane in the direction he was being blown. My landing was easy upon the smooth sea of that mild June morning; and, looking up and taxi-ing slowly
