“Aw, hell,” muttered Jim again with gruff discomfort, pushing him off. “Get busy and fill up that gas-tank to the last drop you can make her hold, while I get into my helmet and togs.”
“Your togs! What d’you want your gear for?”
Jim’s jaw was thrust out with belligerence.
“If Uncle Sam needs you on this job,” he said doggedly, “he needs me, too. This is a two-man stunt. Shut up now, and beat it.”
The next few minutes were a whirlwind of strenuous effort, punctuated with snapped question and fired-back answer and swift directions to the sweating mechanics. Under their practised handling the machine was ready for its great task in record time.
“I swiped a Sperry synchronized driftset and compass from the yard, Jim,” panted Rankin.
“You did!” shouted Jim, and his face lit. “That’s the first slim chance I see, then, of our picking up your darned ship. Mighty like hunting the needle in the haystack anyway. How far’s she out?”
“Commandant said two hundred miles.”
“Good stuff! If any bus in the country can do it, mine will. She makes just over the hundred per hour, and she’s fitted with every mechanical improvement there is.”
There was a note of regretful farewell in the tone. He had been very proud of his machine; and she certainly was the acme of American aeronautic skill.