The door of the plane opened and one of the uneasy directors looked out at Winship.
“A mishap,” the old man reported. “I am afraid that⸺”
He turned suddenly to King Horn.
“You are a pilot; are you—ah⸺”
He switched his gaze suddenly to Franklin Cross.
“He’s one of the best in the business,” the aviation editor assured Winship. “I’ll be delighted to ride with him, for one, if you intend to carry on.”
“Glad to take you over, if you want,” King Horn said. His heart was thumping, but he kept his voice as casual as he could. “You understand I’m not gunning for Nat Scoggins’ job.”
Winship looked at him again. Obviously this young man was a pilot. He certainly looked like one and the aviation editor of the Era said that he was a good one. Moreover, he had acted quickly in the recent emergency—even more quickly than Scoggins, who had been nearer to him.
“We will carry on,” Winship decided. “That’s what men do in aviation—carry on.”
“Right!” said King Horn. “’By, Lyle.” He looked at her. “I’ll be back.”