Jack was saying this at a time when, relieved from the controls he could enter into one of the little confabs that their use of the ear-phones allowed. All Perk had to do was to lean forward and while still handling the stick drink in whatever his co-pilot chose to say.
“Yeah! spit it out then, partner,” was his familiar way of inviting confidence and which meant so much with those who knew Perk’s peculiar sayings best.
To be sure Simeon Hawkins was sitting close beside Perk, and what Jack meant to confide in his running mate could never be intended for his ears but despite this elbow to elbow touch there was not the slightest risk of his being able to pick up a single word, owing to the clamor kicked up by motor exhaust and propeller.
“We’re going on a bit further than was arranged,” said Jack, concisely.
“Huh! meanin’ we don’t pull up when we strike the border, eh, what, Jack?”
“Just that, brother—the going is good, and we might as well keep moving till we drop down on the Metropolitan Airport grounds.”
“Whoopee! you mean at Los Angeles, don’t you, old hoss?” demanded Perk, apparently considerably surprised by his pal’s bald statement.
“Righto, Perk.”
“How come, Jack?”
“Get this fixed in your noodle,” said the resting chief pilot—“circumstances often alter cases, they tell us; well, when we figured on halting at or near the border, close to the Gila River, things hadn’t happened such as have hit us since then.”