Beak blinked at this. There was something decisive about the way Jerry Tabor took off his work clothes. Beak disliked work clothes, himself, and the sight of his partner taking them off raised forebodings. He thought quickly and then spat out his cigarette.
“That suits me fine,” he growled. “The old man’s taught you to fly; he ain’t much more use to you. Go ahead, Jerry; I won’t stand in your way.”
Jerry was a bit staggered at Beak’s ready acceptance. Nevertheless, he remained determined.
“How about the ship and the ’chute?” he asked. “Will you buy me out or will I buy you?”
“You know damn well you’ve got me at a disadvantage, owing to—reverses,” said Beak with dignity. “I can’t buy you out, but you can buy me. I value my half of the ship at five hundred, and my half of the ’chute at fifty. Five hundred and fifty’s the amount.”
Jerry Tabor opened his eyes wide. There was a gleam of anger in them. “Why the ship only cost seven fifty when I—we—bought it six months ago!”
“That was before I had it lined up right and the wings partly recovered,” Beak answered coldly.
“But—it was I that did most of the work on her!” Jerry protested. He was holding himself in with a great effort.
“And it was I that did most of the flying. You think you can freeze me out of this ship because you have a little ready cash tucked away? Guess again and guess better!”
“I can’t pay it,” Jerry said, dispirited. “I haven’t got that much.”