After thirty-four hours and thirty-six hundred miles in the air, Lindbergh was bumping along toward he knew not what in the darkened part of the runway. “What” turned out to be perfectly good grass, and Lindbergh let himself roll to a solid stop on terra firma before turning to taxi back toward the hangars. That was when he saw the crowd, or mob, and they saw him, more than a hundred thousand of them, men, women, and children, rushing toward him screaming things in French, of which the only thing he understood was his name.
