You're takin' him to
camp--whoo-ee! Give your tail a flop and over yuh go like a doggone
tumbleweed in the wind!
"Come on, you little ole cop planes that thinks you're campin' on my
trail! You'll have to ride and whip 'em, now I'm tellin' yuh, if you
want to keep in sight of our dust! Sunfish for 'em, you doggone
Thunder Bird! You're the flyin' bronk from Arizona, and it's your day
to fly!"
With the first loop Schwab went sick, and after that he had no wish
except to die. Whether the Thunder Bird rode head down or tail down he
neither knew nor cared. Nor did Johnny. As he yelled he looped and he
dived, he did tail spins and every other spin that occurred to him.
For the time being he was "riding straight up and fanning her ears,"
and his aerial bronk was pulling off stunts he would never have
attempted in cold blood.
He thought it a shame to have to stop, but North Island was there
beneath him, a flock of planes were keeping out of his way and
forgetting their own acrobatics while they watched him, and Johnny,
with an eye on his gas gauge and his mind recurring to his parting
words with Captain Riley, straightened out reluctantly and got his
bearings.
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