flashed, carrying the weight of his ample bone and muscle. The sentry dropped.
Almost instantly, a dim figure in the garb of a mechanic darted from the shadows to his side.
"All right!" snapped Stoddard. "Pick up his rifle and parade back and forth." He was instantly obeyed by the mechanic. Stoddard took a length of wire from his pocket and secured the sentry; then he ripped the covers from the plane, kicked away the chocks from in front of the wheels and climbed into the tiny cabin.
Here, he leaned forward and snapped on the lights on the instrument board. He primed the motor, switched on the inertia starter, and the engine broke into a sudden roar.
With racing heart, Stoddard warmed the motor and kicked open the door. The mechanic climbed in and sat by his side. Stoddard opened the throttle and the plane moved forward, /in alarm rang stridently somewhere; flood-lights suddenly went on, illuminating the huge field. Another sentry came running from across the field, but Stoddard veered the plane directly at him. The man had no stomach for the charging monster with its deadly propeller. He dropped his rifle and fled to one side.
Stoddard laughed suddenly. This was something like it! With the feel of the stick in his hands, he felt the master.
"I got her all ready this afternoon," he shouted to the mechanic. "Some of the American engineers helped me. She's good for five thousand miles without a stop. Look! There goes another soldier. I'll race her across the field to the far end, and they'll think that I'm trying her out. Lord! Isn't she fast?"
The mechanic did not answer, but slumped into the seat, still holding the Sentry's rifle. Shouts arose from the lighted field. Stoddard paid no heed. He raced here and there and made for the concrete runway. A glance at the illuminated "sock" showed him the wind's direction. He selected one of the diverging runways, faced into the wind, lifted the tail, gave her the gun, and the plane rose in the air.
A little prayer came to Stoddard's lips. Unconsciously, he spoke it aloud:
"God! I hope the motor is warm enough to go to work and doesn't conk on us! I'll climb slowly—but I must clear those wires at the end of the field. Can't see 'em! Here we go!"
Swiftly, surely, the little speed plane rose and thundered away through the night skies, headed straight west. Ten throbbing, droning minutes went by. The lights of Moscow had faded behind them, and there was no sign of any pursuit. They were all alone in a tiny world of their own.
"No one can catch us now," exulted Stoddard. "We're doing nearly two hundred? I'll have you in France or England before dawn!" He stole a look at the mechanic. The tear-brightened topaz eyes that met his caused his hand to shake. The ship wobbled, as if striking an air pocket. "Here!" he continued, sternly, "this won't do! A mechanic should be helpful. Lean over and kiss me!"
The mechanic meekly obeyed.
Stoddard laughed. "Tastes like moist rose petals!" he said. "Boy—I can see where you're going to be quite a help." He looked down at the dark earth, the slim, silver ribbon of the Moskva.
"Good-bye, Russia!" he cried. "To hell with your Gay-Pay-Oo and your Piatiletka! We'll go home and get a job—any job—so long as the good old stars and stripes fly overhead! By the way—I could use another helping of moist rose petals.
Would you mind, Nadine, leaning over?"
