The more he made, the more he would spend. He would simply go
on a spree and perhaps wreck the plane before Johnny was free to hold
him in check.
Once more the motor's thrumming pulled him to the window. Again he
craned and listened, and this time he saw it, flying low so that the
landing gear showed plainly and he could even see Bland in the rear
seat. He knew him by the drooping shoulders, the set of his head, by
that indefinable something which identifies a man to his acquaintances
at a distance. In the front seat was a stranger.
He could see the swirl of the propeller, like fine, circular lines
drawn in the air. The exhaust trailed a ribbon of bluish white behind
the tail. And that indescribable thrumming vibrated through the air
and tore the very soul of him with yearning.
There it went, his airplane, that he loved more than he had ever loved
anything in his life. There it went, boring through the air, all
aquiver with life, a sentient, live thing to be worshipped; a thing to
fight for, a thing to cling to as he clung to life itself. And here
was he, locked into a hot, bare little room, fed as one feeds a caged
beast.
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