“D’you think you could put me on carrying passengers?” he repeated.
Walt Tennant continued to appraise the younger man. “You?” he said at last. “You carry passengers!”
King Horn looked at his employer, puzzled by his tone.
“Why not?” he asked. “You’re not trying to tell me you think I’m a poor pilot, are you?”
Walt Tennant clapped King suddenly on the back.
“The best in the world!” he declared heartily. “The best—bar none, otherwise you’d have killed yourself in a crash long ago instead of just cracking up a few ships.”
“Well⸺” King paused questionings.
“How could I give you a job as a regular pilot when your friend Cross and these other newspaper men have got you labeled all over the country as the craziest, crashingest pilot in the game?” Walt Tennant demanded. “How many customers would come near this circus if they thought they might draw you to take ’em for a ride? You—a man that’s crashed or cracked thirteen ships! How long would I have a circus, do you suppose?”
King Horn was stunned by this volley of questions. He had never doubted his own ability as a pilot and none of the other airmen, he knew, had ever denied his skill at the stick. He had proved that often enough and in ways that no other pilot would follow. But the public—he saw Tennant’s point.
His reputation had not only pressed him into taking more and more risks every day. It had also cut him off from the chance of earning a living in any other way than by continuing to take risks. He was a pilot apart—a specialist in the air who was being pushed steadily toward death by his specialty. There was no job for him with the Tennant circus but the job of flying fool.