“Why, you poor insect, you, I’m only about twice your size, but I’ve three times your grit, at least.”
Jim Tyler thumped Del O’Connell on the back in time to halt the fiery little man’s response.
“It isn’t nerve but nerves that both of you have,” he asserted emphatically. “You’re both worried about those crashed ships, and you both want to take the first risk, in consequence.”
The truth does not belong in an argument. This theory of their conduct was drowned in a combined shout of protest, but Del O’Connell was a bit faster on the tongue than Burt.
“I’ll make that first jump; I’ve got to!” he cried, springing to his feet and thumping a quick fist on the parachute packs. “You can’t trust this fellow, and if he bungles it, we’re gone!”
“I’ll not bungle it,” retorted Burt Minster stubbornly. “And as for nerve, I’ve more nerve than he has language, which is some.”
Jim Tyler slumped wearily against the side wall of the shack and waited for the argument to subside.
“I stand ready to prove you a liar in any way you want to pick,” Del O’Connell declared heatedly.
Burt Minster did not answer at once. His face reddened at the challenge, but his eyes, as they dwelt upon the parachutes, were merely thoughtful. Jim Tyler plunged into the lull.