“Don’t think. Work!” Beak meditated, scowling at his puttees. “I’m getting pretty low down, I am,” he said aloud. “Me, Beak Becket, one of the pioneers in the flying game—one of the few of ’em left—being given orders by my own mechanic and wing walker! I’ve flown before kings and presidents and shaken hands with ’em afterward; I’ve thrilled millions with my daring— and now a kid I picked up and learned to fly tells me where I get off.”
“I understood we were partners, Beak, I having supplied the money for this ship and you having taught me to fly and having the experience,” Jerry said steadily.
“He thinks we been doing pretty good business, he does,” Beak went on, addressing the air. “Since when, even if they are partners, did a dirty-faced, wing-walking crowd catcher stand knee high to a flying man?”
Jerry Tabor gripped his pliers tightly, then slipped them into a pocket and turned to face the other man.
“Beak, you and I don’t seem to be hitting it off as well as we might, lately,” he said. “I reckon half of it’s my fault, anyhow.”
“You’re right; half of it and more, kid. Telling a man like me, one of the best-known pilots in the world, where to get off because I venture to say that flying wire’s too taut!”
Jerry sighed.
“And throwing it in my face all the time that it was his money that bought the ship!” Beak added.
Jerry unbuttoned the dungaree coat.
“That does it, Beak,” he said. “I don’t mind being your mechanic and wing walker and just getting a chance at the stock once in a while when the crowd’s thin or you don’t feel like flying, but all this talk besides is too much. It don’t help my wing walking any. I nearly lost my grip yesterday. I guess it’s about time we put some air between us.”