the trees
had been felled, and that so recently that the woodsmen had not yet
worked them up. There was one clear chance left. If only he could slip
her over just far enough to clear the outstretched limbs of the tree to
the right.

At such a time seconds must be divided into hundredths, and action must
be instantaneous, instinctive, and without flaw. McGee felt one of the
spreading limbs brush against his right wing tip, felt the plane swerve
for a moment, then respond to rudder and aileron. It was a case where
one moment he was supremely thankful for flying speed, and the next, as
the ground of the level field was flashing under the wheels, wishing
that he had held to his resolution concerning hedge hopping.

The wheels struck hard. The plane bounded, high, and again the wheels
touched. Again the plane bounded, and this time came down with a shock
that left McGee amazed with the realization that the undercarriage was
intact and that he still had a chance to keep her off her nose if only
he could get the high-riding tail down.

Crash! Crack! The tail was down now ... and broken to splinters, like as
not. Never mind.... By some great mercy he was at last on three points
and rolling to a stop.

He suddenly felt very weak. A narrow squeeze, that! Stupid way for an
ace--and an instructor--to get washed out. Like a Warrior falling off
his horse while on the way home from a victorious field.

He saw Larkin bank his ship into a tight turn, set the plane down in a
perfect landing and come careening down the open field to stop within a
dozen paces of McGee's plane.

Larkin, white-faced, tight-lipped, crawled from his plane and came
forward on the double-quick. Not a word did he speak until he stood by
the side of Red's plane, his hands gripping the leather piping at the
edge of the cockpit until his knuckles were white.

"What happened, Red? Gee, you're white! All the freckles gone."

"Lucky I'm not gone!" McGee answered. "My knees are too shaky to crawl
out yet. It looked like _finis la guerre pour moi_ for a second."
He turned and blew a kiss at the gap in the trees. "Thanks, Mr.
Woodchopper, whoever you are. Buzz, never repeat that old poem about
'Woodman, spare that tree!' If he had spared those two--well! Take a
look at my tail skid, Old Timer. Is it broken off?"

"No. It's cracked and sort of cockeyed, but a piece of wire from that
fence over there will fix it all O.K. What happened?"

McGee fixed him with a