King Horn remembered that less than half an hour ago he had twitted the newspaper man for spending time about the field so that he could see Lyle. It had seemed funny to him, then. Half an hour! And now he was in love—had realized he was in love—with Lyle. That made him Frank Cross’ rival.
“Lyle did,” he said frankly. “She called me worse than a fool. And—well, I found out somehow that I cared about what she thought of me.”
Cross nodded. “All right,” he said emotionlessly. “I understand. I can’t suppress your crash. Thousands of people saw it. You’re noted for that sort of thing. It’s news. Can’t suppress it. But I’ll say you’ve quit.”
Syd Scoggins, second in command of the circus, and a flying man himself, came up to them.
“King’s quit, Scoggins,” Franklin Cross told him.
“Quit!” Scoggins repeated. He shook his head at King. “That’s good. I was thinkin’ of borrowing a gun and shootin’ you full of holes, King, just to save your life. You’ve been headed for hell in a hurry quite a while, now.”
“All I’m headed for now is a regular piloting job,” King Horn said. “Know of any?”
Scoggins shook his head. “Not for you,” he said. “Nobody who’d ever read a newspaper would trust you to push a baby carriage full o’ bricks across a quiet street, let alone flyin’.”
King Horn nodded somberly. “That’s what I’ve been finding out—suddenly, Syd,” he said. “But I’ve got to get a job, somehow. And I’m not good, for anything but flying.”
He stared across the field at a ship gliding in for a landing.