That afternoon King tried another barnstorming circus, two air schools, a plane-building company and an outfit that did a growing aerial-taxi business. Everybody was glad to see King Horn. They had cigarettes and conversation for him, but no job. That night he went to see Lyle Tennant at the little hotel near Garden City where she stayed with her father. She was out. At least he was told that she was out.
In the morning in his boarding house King looked at the Sunday Era. His exploit of the previous afternoon was on the first page:
KING HORN CRASHES THIRTEENTH AIRPLANE
TO SAVE SPECTATORS
Aerial “Deuce” Wrecks Ship at End of Wild Flight
SLIGHTLY INJURED
All Through with Stunts, He Asserts.
King Horn is through. Rising from the wreckage of his thirteenth crashed plane yesterday afternoon at the Long Island field where the Tennant Circus is operating, King Horn announced that never again would he tempt death.
The pilot, whose whirlwind flying has won for him among airmen the title of “Ace of Deuces,” had survived a stunt flight that turned hard-boiled brother pilots pale as lilies. Then, just as he was about to land, a boy with a camera ran into the path of his machine. In saving the boy and some spectators who rushed after the lad, Horn was forced to wreck the plane in an effort⸺
The story went on and on, and recounted former exploits. King dropped the newspaper to the floor in disgust. Then he picked it up again, and read it through. Franklin Cross had kept his promise to announce his retirement, but the story he wrote was a story of recklessness and folly. It was a just story, King conceded even while he frowned at it. Cross was playing fair. The story wasn’t wrong; it was King Horn that was wrong. He read the other bits of news of Long Island flying activities with careful concentration.
After that he arrayed himself with great care in what is generally considered the conventional attire of a civilian aviator. He wore his only pair of whipcord knickers, with high Cordovan boots, a gray-flannel shirt and a leather coat. It was the first time in a long while that he had been so perfectly habilitated.
He worked grimly on the details of his attire. Looks had become important. He had tried the smaller air outfits and failed; now he must tackle the larger companies—the gilt-edged concerns that carried on a transport business, with mail contracts and regular routes. It was Sunday, of course, but there was plenty of action on Long Island even on Sundays during the summer. For example, Winship, the boss of the Grand Trunk Airway, was to be down.