The short officer shook his head, pausing beyond the reaching wisps of white stuff. He spoke in a grim voice.
“Adams and that new officer—Langdon,” he stated. “Looks tough, eh?”
Ben Chapin nodded. “Not so bad for Adams,” he said slowly. “He’ll have brains enough to fly back out of it, and land somewhere. But this Tex Langdon—the Lord knows what he’ll do!”
The adjutant swore. “Wild riding birdman!” he muttered. “But if he tries to come down in this stuff, he may finish up his career in a hurry.”
The adjutant vanished from sight into the narrow corridor of the barracks. He was hungry and cold, and not particularly concerned about Tex Langdon. Lieutenant Chapin stood out in the fog, and shook his head slowly.
“Hope Tex does use his bean!” he muttered. “Sort of like that officer. Acts like he’s trying hard enough. But this’ll be his first dose of—”
He checked himself. He was thinking of the clash after mess, last night, between Adams and Tex Langdon. It had been a sharp one. Lieutenant Adams was an old-timer—three weeks on the front. Tex had been up three days. In that time he had nosed over one ship, cracked another up two miles from the Squadron, in a forced landing, and then he had taxied into a wing-tip of Adam’s pet Nieuport, just before mess. The old-timer had told him just about what he had thought. Tex had listened with a grin on his face, and the grin had enraged Lieutenant Adams.
“You’ll get yours in about three more days, Langdon!” he had shot at him, and then, as Tex had kept right on smiling, Adams had gone the limit. “And the sooner the better—for this outfit!”
Ben Chapin, standing out in the fog with his face tilted upward, swore grimly. Adams hadn’t meant that. He’d been sore; the nervous strain was telling on him. And Tex had smiled that provocative smile of his. The big fellow was calm, or had been until that second. Then his eyes had narrowed to little slits.