“And we’ll carry you three thousand miles to use you fifteen minutes or less. You’re our landing pilot and what you don’t know about London you’d better find out in the next six days.”
Buck took off his straw hat, wiped the perspiration from his face, hitched his trousers and then made his speech in two words. “Thank you,” he said and for the first time he seemed absolutely confused. Ned and Alan had hurried on and the elder men were crowding through the narrow door into the stateroom when Buck held out his hand and stopped his fellow reporter, Bob.
“Russell,” he whispered, “what’s the game? You’re on!”
Bob glanced toward the door and then, in a low voice, answered:
“We’re goin’ to pick up three staff men in London at two o’clock on Coronation Day and, while they’re knockin’ out the big story, shoot ’em over the Atlantic in twelve hours with the Herald’s next day leads. While they’re clickin’ these off, the picture man in the back room is gettin’ ready all the parade stuff with snaps of George and Mary and flash lights of the show in Westminster—”
Buck eyed him open-mouthed.
“Ain’t you in on this?” he asked breathlessly.
“I’m the engineer in overalls.”
Buck’s vacant stare suggested a vain attempt to think.
“Don’t worry,” laughed Bob, “you’ll be dumped in London.”