“Listen, Les,” I said at length, wiping the tears from my eyes. “‘HANGAR ON MARTIN FLYING FIELD BURNED. Two Martin Bombers, VALUED AT $100,000, COMPLETELY DESTROYED.’”
If you told Les Fernald that the continent of Europe had sunk into the sea, and that North America was expected to follow it into the briny deep, he’d probably say:
“Well, let’s improve the time we’ve got left and see a good show, or have a drink or something.”
So the rise I got out of him was:
“Read on, Slim. You interest me.”
The story, peeled down to the core, was simply that the two ships we were to fly to Langham that day had been burned up, that no one could figure how the fire had started, and that the entire factory had been in great danger of ignition, so to speak. Only herculean efforts had saved it. Three fires, at different points, had been discovered before they got burning merrily enough to be out of control.
We cantered out to the factory without delay, and found a very mystified bunch of men, from the G. M. down. The only possible explanation they had for it was that a group of ten workmen had been fired a few weeks after the discovery that they were grafting, and that possibly they had started the conflagration to get revenge. We wired Washington, and were ordered to stay in Cleveland a few days until the next two Martins were ready. The factory schedule on the army contract was four ships a week.
Marston poked around in his sullen, scowling way, and when I ran across him out at the excited factory I inquired casually:
“Did you happen to see the fire? We were in bed early and never knew it until this morning.”
“No, sir. I was in bed before midnight.”