“That wire was so loose it vibrated like a harp cord when I test-hopped her,” Jerry Tabot explained mildly. “I’ll take some out, Beak, but—”
“You test-hopped her!” Beak repeated, in a tone of derision. “What does a wing walker know about test-hopping? About as much as a fish knows about ice skating. You leave test-hopping to me, my boy.”
Jerry got red under his sunburn.
“If I’m not a pilot as well as a wing walker, you got money under false pretenses, Beak,” he answered steadily.
“Made his solo three months ago—and thinks he can tell me when a ship is rigged right!” the older aviator remarked caustically to some unseen spectator. “He’ll be claiming he invented planes in another three months.”
Jerry stirred, as if under the lash of a whip. Nevertheless, he showed a placating grin. It was always possible that Beak had run into some particularly bad liquor and that he could be kidded out of his fit of temper.
“What’s the matter, Beak?” Jerry inquired. “Did another race horse sit down on you? You ought to stick to flying. Betting on races is risky.”
“When I need your advice, kid, it’ll be because everybody else is dead!” Beak snapped. He ignored the smile. “You slack off that wire, d’you hear? We’re going to hop out of this Godforsaken neighborhood right away. It’s as full of barnstorming planes as a dog is of fleas.”
Jerry looked at the senior partner in surprise.
“I thought we’d been doing pretty good business, myself, Beak,” he commented.