When, seven years ago, a barnstorming pilot in a rickety biplane landed on the Oklahoma farm of a horny, weatherbeaten dirt-farming couple named Post, their son a thick fellow whose swarthy skin revealed his Indian bloodproceeded to palm himself off to the pilot as a parachute jumper and wing-walker. The barnstormer was gullible and Wiley Post became a jumper. Jumping did not hold him for long. Soon it was: "I'd give an eye to be able to fly." One day at his work in an oil field, hot metal flew into his...
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