As King Horn, in his impeccable flying kit, approached, Winship stopped talking and peered at him with keen interest.
“A friend of mine—one of the best pilots in the business, Mr. Winship,” Franklin Cross said.
“Hope I’m not intruding, sir,” said King Horn politely as Winship nodded. He smiled at the nervous pilot. “Hello, Nat.”
Nat Scoggins grinned back, a trifle sheepishly.
“’Lo,” he said.
“You ought to wear that type of knickers, Scoggins,” declared Mr. Winship suddenly. “It is very smart.”
“I can fly withou⸺ Yes, sir,” Scoggins said.
Mr. Winship turned to King Horn with a benevolent smile.
“I am sorry I cannot ask you and Miss—ah—the young lady to join us on this flight over New York, but with Mr. Cross the ship is full,” he said. He waved a hand back toward the fuselage. “I am giving my board of directors a baptism of air.”
King Horn looked toward the cabin of the ship. Through the windows he caught a glimpse of several heads, white, grizzled or bald, bobbing about a trifle apprehensively. One, like Winship, sported an unnecessary helmet.