The airplane circled hawklike, climbed higher, and disported itself in an S or two and a “figure eight,” all of which Johnny absorbed as a sponge absorbs water.  Then, pointing, flew straight.

They were going back to the ledge.  Johnny’s heart sank at thought of once more creeping along on the surface of the earth like a worm, toiling over the humps and the hollows that looked so tiny from away up there.  He wanted to implore Bland to turn and go back, but he did not know how long the gasoline would last, and he was afraid they might be compelled to land in some spot a long way from his rock hangar.  He said nothing, therefore, but strove to squeeze what bliss remained for him in the next minutes, distressingly few though they were.

As it happened, Bland did not know the topography of Sinkhole as did Johnny, and in the still air the flour sack did not flutter.  Bland was in a fair way to fly too far.  Johnny knew they were much too high to land at the cleft unless they did an abrupt dive, and he did not quite like the prospect.  He let Bland go on, then daringly banked and circled.  Bland had done it, half a dozen times—­so why not Johnny?  Luck was with him—­or perhaps his sense of balance was true.  He did not side-slip, and he made the turn on a downward incline, which brought them closer to earth.  He sought out the place where Mary V, a tiny wisp of a figure, stood beside the cleft, and flattened out as the ground came rushing up to meet him.

To all intents Johnny made that landing alone, for if Bland helped he did not say so.  Johnny was positive that he had made it himself, and his sense of certainty propelled him whooping to where Mary V stood, her camera once more slanted uselessly in her two hands, her lips set in a line that usually meant trouble for somebody.

“How’s that—­hunh?  Say, there’s nothing like it!  Did you get a picture of that landing I made?  Say—­”

“It seems to me that you are doing all the saying, yourself,” Mary V interrupted him unenthusiastically.  “It may be all very nice for you, Johnny Jewel, to go sailing around in an aeroplane.  I suppose it is very nice for you.  I grant that without argument.  But as for me—­” Sympathy for herself pushed her lips into a trembling, forced a quiver into her voice.

“As for me, you went and stampeded Jake so he broke loose and went off like a—­a bullet!  And Bill Hayden will just about murder me for taking him; I was going to sneak him back while the boys were out after more horses, and sneak out again with Tango so Bill wouldn’t know.  And now look what a mess you’ve got me into!  Of course you don’t care—­you and your darned old flying machine!  I wish it had busted itself all to pieces!  And you too!  And Sandy’s stampeded after Jake, and I’m just glad of it!” She gulped, forced back further angry-little-girl storming, and recovered her young-lady sarcasm.