“Sure, Miss Sample. But what—why that plane belongs to Willie VanGeldt, the rich young bum. Why—”
“Jerry,” Rosemary smiled, “curiosity once killed a cat. Will you look it over while I go in and make my report?”
“Sure, Miss Sample.”
Fifteen minutes later when Rosemary reappeared, Jerry made a wry face.
“Terrible, Miss Sample, just terrible! Carbon in the cylinders, oil in the spark plugs, everything wrong! Wonder it runs at all.
“It’s a shame!” he went on. “It really is! Here we are keeping everything perfect. Motors dragged out and overhauled every three hundred hours, everything just perfect. And these amateurs!”
“I know, Jerry,” Rosemary broke in. “But tell me, have you a couple of mechanics who’d like to earn some overtime by overhauling this motor?”
“That motor? Willie VanGeldt’s? You pay for it? Honest, Miss Sample, he’s not worth it! He ain’t worth much of anything. That’s my guess.”
“Everyone is worth something,” Rosemary replied soberly. “I don’t want to see him get himself killed. It will be bad for aviation in general. And besides, Jerry, I’ve a feeling about that airplane—one I can’t explain. So you just get that motor fixed up, and I’ll pay the men, pay them tomorrow.”
“All right, Miss Sample. But—”