“What d’you say, Beak? It’s a gambling proposition. I’m sticking anyhow—so the ’chute’s no good to me. I’ve got a hunch, Beak, and I want to play it. Three hundred—right here in my pants pocket—three hundred and the ’chute.”
“Go to hell!”
“I’m willing, Beak. I want to back my hunch.”
The ship sang on in the still air.
“You’re a crazy damn fool!” Beak growled.
Jerry did not answer him. It was up to the pilot now.
“Crazy! Dumb! Gi’ me the ’chute! Get set to take control! Crazy! Hurry up!”
Hastily Jerry worked at the buckles. He felt only like a man easing himself of a burden. Finally he wormed out of the harness. He passed it and the ’chute pack carefully back to Beak. Then, steadying the ship with his own stick, he waited silently, sensing every move of the struggle Beak made in getting into the straps.
“Here’s the money, too, Beak,” he called, leaning down the fuselage and groping for the other man’s hand. He could not locate it.
“This is your own damn foolishness—I didn’t have nothing to do with it,” Beak said thickly. “I warned you!”