“Third? Who’s second and first?”
“Impco is second.”
“And—?”
“Stormbird is first.”
“Hang it all! They’re gettin’ the breaks all around. I suppose it figures out all right in the end, but— I hate to have ’em leadin’ us at the very start!”
“Benny, aren’t you goin to dress up? Those overalls of yours ’re dirty enough to walk around by themselves.”
“I wouldn’t change ’em for a suit of ermine, Ned,” I answered. “They may be dirty as mud, but I love ’em!”
Then, Ned tells me, we should be on our way. We roll the plane out, and block her; Ned gets in, contacts her, and we pump the prop. She roars off, higher and higher, and the engine begins to warm and sing a sweet song. When she’s hot, she’s the sweetest soundin’ motor I ever heard. Grinnin’ all over our faces, Ned and I get set. She steps off down the field, swings into the air, and away we go, for the startin’ field, as full of hope as any man could be without bustin’.
Pretty soon the field slides into view. There’s a crowd pushin’ around on it, and lined up, staggered in back of each other, are planes. We circle and come down, and taxi smoothly across the field. Then we ground-loop neatly, and come amblin’ back. Ned cuts the motor, and we hop out. For a minute we’re busy registerin’, and then official greaseballs push the plane into place, third in the line.
And there’s the Stormbird, our deadly opponent, with its nose ’way out in front. As we come past it, the pilot comes away from it. It is Walker, lookin’ uglier ’n ever, with gloatin’ eyes and crooked sneer. We give him hard looks and want to go on, but he has somethin’ to say.