A peasoup fog blew in over New Jersey one day last week, just after Pilot Albert Vale and his wife had taken off from Preakness, homeward bound to Philadelphia. The mist enveloped them. It was impossible to go on, too late to turn back. They would make for the field at Paterson nearby. Cautiously Pilot Vale flew as low as he dared, straining for the welcome sight of wind-sock or hangar-roof. After a nerve-wrenching period of groping his heart leapt. There on the ground was a plane! Pilot Vale carefully swung around...
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