And here they were, in an old shack within the mile track of the Baychester Fair Grounds on the evening before opening day, with discord rampant in their ranks, and threatening to blow the company into its three component parts.
At one end of the rickety table sat Delevan O’Connell, a slender, animated young man. His wiry body was so short that he was compelled to lean forward on his elbows in order to raise his angry blue eyes above the two brand new parachute packs on the table and focus them on the big form of Burt Minster. Burt scowled back at him.
“Oh, shut your traps, both of you,” growled Jim Tyler, bestowing an impartial glare on his two partners. “What difference does it make which of you does the first jump?”
The gist of the trouble was this: Both O’Connell and Minster felt responsible for the straits in which the company found itself, and therefore each man aspired to go over the side in the new parachutes. Now a chute jump is nothing much; but when you haven’t made one before, and haven’t even a man alongside you who has and knows something about the sensation and the harness, it is somewhat lacking in dullness.
Delevan O’Connell was swift to answer Jim Tyler’s question. Already the discussion had gotten well within the bounds of plain speaking.
“It makes this much difference,” he snapped, keeping his eyes fixed on Burt, although he spoke to Jim. “The first jump must not be botched.”
“And therefore you must make it!” exclaimed Burt Minster, with a great laugh.
Del O’Connell flared up.
“I can not have this outfit broken up because this great oaf lacks a little nerve at the crucial moment.”
Burt Minster leaned backward in his chair to give his chest room for the discharge of another roar of mirth.