“I’ve got to get a job, somehow,” he said again, rather desperately. “I’ve got to!”
“Sorry for what I’ve done to spoil things by writing those wild-eyed stories about you,” Frank Cross muttered. He had gone back to prodding the ground with his stick.
“I didn’t mind ’em—they helped the circus. But things are different now. And I’ve got to—”
Scoggins, who had been thinking hard, nodded toward the huge field that lay to northward of them.
“Try the Grand Trunk Airway,” he suggested, though his voice was not hopeful. “They’re just startin’ in—lots of cash an’ no sense. My brother Nat’s got a job with ’em—a guy named Winship, old enough to ha’ promoted horse cars, give it to him. Nat’s a God-awful pilot but he looks like one and he’s put in a lot of hours.”
“Winship’s a big man in Wall Street,” Cross commented. “He’s just been bitten by the flying bug, like a lot of them down there, and he’s running things himself.”
“Of course—they prob’ly ha’ heard of you, King,” Scoggins said haltingly.
“They probably have,” King Horn agreed. “Well—thanks, anyhow.”
He smiled at them, jerked a hand in farewell and strode away. Since he needed a job, now was the time to go after it. He caught a taxi and drove to the field which the Grand Trunk Airway had leased. There was nobody around the hangars but three disgruntled mechs.
“The big boss will be down for a hop tomorrow,” one grease monkey told him. “Nothin’ doing around here today. No orders or nothin’. We only got one ship anyhow—a three-motor job—an’ no organization. This here airway is hind end to.”