“I swan now, if this ain’t a punk deal!” ventured Perk, in a tone of injured innocence, “when did this beat in on us, buddy?”
“It’s just plain unadulterated fog,” Jack told him in a matter-of-fact tone as though such a thing was to be expected in a night’s run where every possible type of country, from prairie to mountains, could be met up with and the contrary streams of air were favorable to heavy fogs.
Perk first of all took a single look over the side.
“Ginger pop! a reg’lar pea-soup that’s been dished up for us, it sure is, partner!” he exclaimed, the head phones still being in use so that talking was no trouble at all even though the racket all around was deafening.
“Some fog, that’s right Perk,” admitted the unmoved pilot “the one you’re mixed up with always does seem to be the worst ever.”
“How long we been kickin’ through this mess?” demanded Perk.
“Oh, something like half an hour more or less I figure,” said Jack.
“An’ it’s now jest three in the mornin’—meanin’ some two and a half more hours before the first peep o’ day.”
He leaned forward, the better to survey the altitude dial in order to learn how high Jack had been flying.
“Four thousand feet an’ more, eh?” Perk remarked, “I guess that might be fairly safe, unless there happened to be a stiff mountain range standin’ across our course. Want me to keep that right along, Boss?”