“All day. The silk plane covers fit like a woman’s dress, and they’ve got to be ‘just so’. Then the planes must be leveled and braced like a yacht’s rigging—only more so. And then comes the engine, the shafts and truing ’em up and last the propellers, to say nothin’ of the cooling coils, the fuel tank, the operator’s seat and the control stirrup—”
“Come on,” interrupted Mr. Cook, with a pretended groan. “Let’s go home and rest.”
After supper, Weston and Doolin disappeared on programs of their own, but Roy had had a thing on his mind all day that prevented him from settling down to rest at once. Mr. Cook’s one luxury on the plains was a good cigar. He had hardly lit his after supper smoke before Roy broached the matter about which he had been bothering. What had happened to old Utah Banning the night before he could not help but feel was partly due to him.
He related the details of the episode to Mr. Cook. He had wanted to do it all day, but Weston had almost persuaded him that it was no affair of his and that the old “bum” had probably experienced the same thing scores of times. But Mr. Cook was vastly more sympathetic. He entered at once into a full discussion of the matter.
“He probably wanted whisky for the full amount,” suggested Mr. Cook. “Anyway, it was likely an unprovoked assault. If you like, we’ll go and find out.”
It was just what Roy did want, and with Mr. Cook drawing slowly on his fragrant weed, he and the boy set out for Saloon Row.