“I sure did, sir.”
“Um-m. That’s why I said you were a very lucky young man. I know the names of a lot of young fellows who wanted to become pilots–and did. But they’ve gone West now and their names are on wooden crosses. Hoe your own row, Martins, and thank the Lord for small favors.”
“Yes, sir,” aloud, and under his breath, “It’s easy enough for them that has wings.”
“How’s that, Martins?” McGee asked, rather enjoying himself.
Martins fidgeted with the gear shift. “I said I had always wanted a pair of wings, sir.”
“Well, be a good boy and maybe you’ll get them–in the next world. Good night, Martins.”
“’Night–sir.” Gurrr! went the clashing gears as the car got under way with a lurch that spoke volumes for the driver. It was tough to be held to the ground by a wingless motor.
35McGee caught a gleam of light through the shutters of the upstairs windows. So Larkin was back already? He took the front steps in a jump and raced up the stairs in a manner most unbecoming to a First Lieutenant with a score of victories to his credit.
“What kind of an outfit did you draw, Buzz?” he demanded as he burst into the room.
Larkin was buried behind a Paris edition of the Tribune, his legs sprawled out into the middle of the floor where the heel of one boot balanced precariously on the toe of the other.