Mexico City. It is just before dawn. People have gathered from the shadows of the night at Valbuena Field; more people than gathered at Roosevelt Field when Charles Augustus Lindbergh flew for Paris; more than gathered at Le Bourget, Paris, when he flew for London, via Brussels.
A little white spot dances slowly around the cabin of The Spirit of St. Louis. Col. Lindbergh is meticulously examining the ship by electric flashlight; guaranteeing to himself her fitness. In her cabin he stows unaccustomed implements, fish hooks, a cruel, keen machete.* Fish hooks...
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