He decided to try the Grand Trunk first. There were jobs there to be filled, anyhow, and he felt that he needed a job so badly that it would take a lot of refusing to keep him away from it.
When his taxi stopped at the spacious field leased by the new company, he heard the throb of motors turning at idling speed. The great three-motored monoplane was out on the line in front of one of the hangars. Its broad wing glistened like the path of the sun on smooth water. King Horn eyed the ship respectfully but wistfully. Then he forgot all about it.
There were, besides the fussing mechanics, four people standing in front of the ship. Two of these were Franklin Cross and Lyle Tennant. They were together.
“Maybe I don’t need that job so badly after all,” King muttered to himself. His heart was jumping.
As he walked toward them, Lyle Tennant saw him coming. And quite suddenly, as her eyes spoke to him and his eyes spoke to her, King Horn realized that he did need the job. She knew—and he knew.
Lyle came toward him, and Franklin Cross came with her. There was no greeting.
“That’s Winship talking to Scoggins, the pilot,” Cross said rapidly. “Come over with us and let him get a squint at you in that rig.”
“Frank—Frank’s helping, King,” Lyle murmured.
“Wait and see,” the aviation editor of the Era retorted.
Winship was a tall, spare old man. In his pale, gaunt face his eyes seemed incongruously large and black. He was carefully adjusting a flying helmet while he catechized Nat Scoggins, Syd’s brother. Scoggins was not happy. He was answering volubly, but his eyes were uneasily dwelling upon his employer, who stood within three feet of one of the whirring wing propellers.