, black-jack in
hand, caught Carl's arm, and ordered: "Don't start anything! They can
lick us. Just look ready. Don't say anything. We'll hold 'em till the
cops come. But nix on the punch."

"Right, Cap'n," said Carl.

It was a strain to stand motionless, facing the crowd, not answering
their taunts, but he held himself in, and in two minutes the yell
came: "Cheese it! The cops!" The mob unwillingly swayed back as
Onamwaska's heroic little band of five policemen wriggled through it,
requesting their neighbors to desist.... They entered the tent and,
after accepting cigars from Carl's manager, coldly told him that Carl
was a fake, and lucky to escape; that Carl would better "jump right
out and fly if he knew what was good for him." Also, they nearly
arrested the manager for possessing a black-jack, and warned him that
he'd better not assault any of the peaceable citizens of beautiful
Onamwaska....

When they had coaxed the mob behind the barriers, by announcing that
Ericson would now go up, Carl swore: "I won't move! They can't make
me!"

The secretary of the fair, who had regained most of his courage, spoke
up, pertly, "Then you better return the five hundred advance, pretty
quick sudden, or I'll get an attachment on your fake flying-machine!"

"You go----Nix, nix, Hawk, don't hit him; he ain't worth it. You go to
hell, brother," said the manager, mechanically. But he took Carl
aside, and groaned: "Gosh! we got to do something! It's worth two
thousand dollars to us, you know. Besides, we haven't got enough cash
in our jeans to get out of town, and we'll miss the big Riverport
purse.... Still, suit yourself, old man. Maybe I can get some money by
wiring to Chicago."

"Oh, let's get it over!" Carl sighed. "I'd love to disappoint
Onamwaska. We'll make fifteen thousand dollars this month and next,
anyway, and we can afford to spit 'em in the eye. But I don't want to
leave you in a hole.... Here you, mechanic, open up that tent-flap.
All the way across.... No, not like _that_, you boob!... So.... Come
on, now, help me push out the machine. Here you, Mr. Secretary, hustle
me a couple of men to hold her tail."

The crowd rose, the fickle crowd, scenting the promised blood, and
applauded as the monoplane was wheeled upon the track and turned to
face the wind. The mechanic and two assistants had to hold it as a
dust-filled gust caught it beneath the wings. As Carl climbed into the
seat and the mechanic went forward to