“Not this plane, Mr.—?”
“Weed’s my name, youngster. Who be ye anyway?”
Bill smiled at the matter-of-fact Mr. Weed. “First pilot of this amphibian,” he answered calmly.
Several of the other men chuckled. “That’s one fer ye,” exploded one, “what’s his moniker matter, so’s he can fly the plane?”
“That’s my business,” growled the Vermonter. “Shut yer face, Pete! You’re too goldarned mouthy!”
“Who sez so?” Pete scowled at him and laid a hand on the revolver he carried in a holster under his left arm. “Not you, you nosey hayseed—cut yer cackle and let’s get goin’. I’m fed up to the eyes with you and this stinkin’ swamp.”
He beckoned to the others to follow and the party filed aboard the amphibian.
Weed splashed the dock with tobacco juice. “Guess you must be one of them new aviators the boss has hired,” he observed in his nasal twang.
“I guess you’re right,” said Bill. “Made my first trip yesterday. Any orders?”
“Nope—no orders. You’ve got a bunch of gold aboard—be careful of it, that’s all. What’s become of Thompson? He wasn’t so goldarned stuckup as most of you fellers.”