"Aw, come on! What's the matter with you?
They do it all the time, over in France! Turn her over.

All ready?
Retard--contact!" Bland cranked the motor, but it was plain that his mind was working furiously with some hard problem.

Should he refuse to ride on a wing and let Johnny fly off without him?
All Bland's hatred of the wilderness, his distrust of men who wore spurs and big hats as part of their daily costume, shrieked no.

Where the plane went he should go.

Should he consent to ride flat on his stomach on a wing, with the wind sweeping exhaust fumes in his face and the earth a dwindling panorama of monotonous gray landscape far beneath him?
His nerves twittered uneasily at the suggestion.
But when the motor was going and the plane quivering and kicking back a trail of dust, and Johnny had his goggles down and was looking at him expectantly, Bland chose the lesser woe and laid himself alongside the fuselage with his head tucked under a wire brace, his hands gripping brace and wing edge, his toes hooked, and his cheek pressed against the sleek covering.