The Flying Chance
I.
The commandant of the Philadelphia navy-yard looked up from thesheaf of papers which bore the superscription of the Bureau of NavalAffairs, Washington, at the young man who stood at attention beforehis desk.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Rankin,” he said simply.
The brown, alert face showed no surprise. Ensign Rankin belonged tothose men who cannot afford to be easily shaken from their balance,but his passionate argument was already on his lips.
“But why?” he cried. “Why? I passed in everything else. My sense ofbalance was perfect. My nerve reactions were A No. 1. My bloodpressure, hearing, everything! Only those paltry two points I fellshort in.”
Official dignity relaxed just a trifle before the bitterness of theyoung man’s disappointment.
“I’m sorry,” the commandant said again. “But this flying business isdangerous enough as it is without our adding to it by overlookingthe slightest imperfection in the human machine. The servicerequires a full twenty in eyesight, and your test measures up onlyeighteen. Therefore you have been judged ‘unfit for aviation.’”
The hundred and sixty pounds of hard, lean athlete stiffened yetfurther with the fighting spirit.
“Then, with your permission, sir, I shall appeal for a waiver.Because I’ve flown all kinds of machines long before I ever got thiscommission.”
The commandant’s eyes were steely.
“It will do you no good to appeal to Washington for a waiver, Mr.Rankin. There have been a few cases, I admit—a very few, likeWilliams and Steffanson—but only after the men concerned have provedthemselves to be expert beyond all question in spite of theirphysical shortcomings.
“These orders are final. You have already been transferred to lineduty, and you will report to Lieutenant-Commander Evans for furtherinstructions.”
Even the rawest and scrappiest ensign could make no mistake aboutthat tone. Rankin sensed vaguely that the authority of the wholeUnited States stood behind that incisive, unruffled voice.
He went, and reported.
“Ha, Rankin,” Lieutenant-Commander Evans greeted him. “I’ve alreadyreceived orders about you. I’m sure we shall be pleased to have youwith us. If you will call for me at the mess some time thisafternoon I’ll take you on board and introduce you in theward-room.”
Rankin murmured a conventional thanks. But he meant not a word ofit. His mind was full of the injustice of his case. He was notinterested in line duties; he had come into the service foraviation.
“I guess there’s nothing you can do till then,” Evans continued.“Only don’t get lost. Stick around the yard somewhere; because we’reunder orders to hold ourselves in readiness to put out at a moment’snotice, and all leave has been cut short.”
“Very well, sir.”
“All right. See you around three o’clock then.”
Rankin’s was a war commission. That is to say, his rating in thenaval militia had been accepted at its face value by the navy. Hewas therefore a full-blown ensign, just the same as any Annapolisgraduate, much to the indignation of those same graduates, who hadspent many toilsome years in qualifying for the same rank.
Militia commissions were always looked upon with disfavor by theAnnapolis men. Rankin, for instance, had put in just two months withthe naval militia of his State, and had been elected to a commissionby his fellows on account of his happy popularity and his superiorexperience in flying.
The sacred tra