King smiled reminiscently at Winship’s elaborate regrets. “Thanks,” he said. “I’ve been over New York.”
“No doubt, no doubt,” said Mr. Winship. “We old-timers are children at all this.” As if to prove it, he cinched on his helmet, turned and gravely walked directly toward the twirling, half-visible propeller.
With a howl Scoggins jumped for him. King Horn jumped, too, and faster. Together they pulled the startled financier away from the man-killing club.
“What—what” stammered Winship. Then he stopped. The unfortunate Scoggins, in voiceless agony, was bent over and walking a few steps this way and that. His left hand clutched his right. His teeth were clenched and his face contorted in agony. The idling prop had tapped him on the arm.
“Broken!” he gritted. “Broken!”
Lyle went to him, and he permitted her to touch his arm. “It is broken; we must find a doctor,” she said. Her voice was full of pity. “Hold it like that.”
Scoggins supported his arm. His self-possession came back to him. He turned to Winship.
“Can’t fly for a while,” he said tersely. “Sorry.”
“You must have my car,” the old man replied. “Smithers will take you to Garden City.” He motioned to his chauffeur, who stood at a discreet distance beside the hangar. “I appreciate what you have done for me; you’ll not regret it, young man. Meanwhile, full pay during your disability.”
Scoggins, brusquely declining offers of company, moved toward the car. As he passed King, he let his left eyelid flutter. It was apparent that Mr. Scoggins had recovered from the jolt of the fracture and was now privately rejoicing that he did not have to take the impressive board of directors on the flight over the city.