Pittsfield, as he figured it, was about two hundred miles away and the best that could be hoped for from this aged crate was sixty-five miles an hour—that would be an actual fifty, allowing for crabbing into the wind.
“We’ll be squeezing the gas tank and landing in the dusk,” Jerry prophesied. “I’m glad it’s Beak that does the flying. On paper it can’t be done.”
Beak coaxed the ship up to four thousand feet, to give the Jersey pine belt plenty of room under him. The wind was too strong, however, so he dropped down to fifteen hundred, where he straightened out. Slowly the dark green carpet, with the pines looking no taller than grass blades at that height, slipped behind them.
Jerry checked the course against compass and crosswind, and nodded to Beak. Then he settled down a bit farther in the cockpit, out of the wind and gloomily considered the chances of escaping from under Beak’s choleric thumb. It could be done only at the sacrifice of Jerry’s share of the ship, he decided, and he would never quit the ship he had paid for. He roused once from his meditations when the ship pitched suddenly. Turning, he discovered that the motion was due to Beak clamping the stick insecurely between his knees while he crouched low to light a cigarette.
Meeting Jerry’s inquiring eye, Beak gripped the stick angrily and shook it about. The plane reeled in the air and Jerry was rattled about among the baggage. He snapped on his safety belt and ignored the man behind.
“He’ll be making me shine those puttees and slapping my hand with a ruler,” he mumbled in deep discomfiture. “But he can’t shake me loose from this ship.”
Jerry sank back into the cockpit again and stared at the sky. Cross-country flying has its thrills, but it also has its monotony when indulged in too frequently.
Some time later, a hearty kicking at the back of his seat startled Jerry into realization of mundane affairs. He turned to his partner.
“Check ground speed!” Beak shouted, pointing downward. They were over a sizable sheet of water—Jerry recognized it from its contour and from the many ships as upper New York Bay. On the map, he reckoned the distance from the Battery to Yonkers ferry, about eighteen miles. He glued his eye to his wrist-watch while the ship, bumping erratically in the rough air above the skyscrapers and the Palisades, crawled up the Hudson. It took almost twenty minutes to reach the ferry slip.
“About fifty-four!” he shouted back, and Beak jerked his head in acknowledgment.