I longed with all my soul to hit the man between the eyes, to crush
that half-sneering smile into his face with my heel, but I let the
insult pass and followed the others inside.

"Here is the machine gun, gentlemen. If you will notice, it is a 36
caliber and not a 32 at all. If you will wait one minute, I'll get you
the magazine. That will prove it to you beyond a doubt."

He left the hangar and the coroner picked up the gun.

"I could have sworn that the gun I had hold of was a 32. The barrel
seems too small for a 36. Why, look here! This _is_ a 32. Here is
the caliber marked on it."

From outside came the sputter and crack of an aeroplane engine.
Simpson caught it first and dashed to the door.

"It's Woods' plane. He's going to escape."

We ran out of the hangar and across the field toward the aeroplane
which, by now, was enveloped in blue vapor. Before we had gone
half-way, it was taxi-cabbing across the field, careening first to one
side and then to the other. Suddenly it swerved and turned in our
direction. We stood there, a little breathless, to see what it would
do. The engines of the plane droned higher as it came toward us.

Suddenly Simpson clutched my arm and yelled: "Look out! he's trying to
run us down."

I ran wildly to one side of the field, not daring to look back but only
trying to reach a place of safety. The sound of the engines came
crashing to my ears like the staccato roar of a hundred machine guns.
My legs felt as if they were lead. I seemed to be standing still. One
frightened glance over my shoulder showed the machine, like some
monstrous vulture, bearing down on me. I could feel it gaining and
gaining. The heavy drone of the engines seemed to fill the air with
its noise. A pitiful sense of helplessness gripped me. I knew I was
going to die like a rat in the jaws of a fox terrier. I screamed aloud
in my terror and pitched headlong on the turf. With a roar, and a rush
of wind that almost lifted me from the ground, the aeroplane passed
over me, its wheels no more than four feet from my head.

I am not sure to this day, whether Frank Woods tried to kill me or not.
I don't know whether he was cheated of his game when I stumbled and the
speed of his motor carried the plane off the ground, or whether he was
just trying to put the fear of God in me. I will swear, however, that
as the motor passed over my head, I heard Frank Woods' voice raised in
a demoniacal laugh.