“What happened?”
His eyes met the captain’s. The men were fighting the fire, but the officers were gathered about him, Dumpy Scarth in the front.
Moran gathered himself together, and essayed a grin.
“Elevators went wrong on me, that’s all,” he said with elaborate carelessness. “Brought her down with the motor. Wasn’t that a ⸺ of a note?”
The overwrought C.O. went into eruption—
“You’re ⸺ right it was a ⸺ of a note! Think you’re smart because you got out by a miracle, do you? You’re a De Haviland stunt man, are you? What the ⸺ do you mean, diving a D.H. like you did up there, against my orders and against good sense? By ⸺ I don’t care whether you kill yourself or not, but ships are ⸺ valuable down here!
“Wipe that sickly grin off your face, ⸺ you! You’re entirely too smart for the border, and I don’t give a hoot how good a flyer you are. Get that? You’re confined to the post for a month, and if the boys weren’t flying themselves to death I'd ground you besides. Just as quick as the ⸺’ll let me I’m going to get you transferred and swap you for somebody I can use.”
The doughty captain whirled on Scarth. As if in a dream Moran heard him say savagely:
“As for you, Dumpy, the same thing goes. This is no time for your grandstanding, either. Couldn’t resist raising ⸺ with a new man, eh? What do you know about his flying, or what might have happened up there? You save your flying for patrol, understand, and mind your own business in the air and on the ground!”
Scarth flushed, and his mouth opened, but one look into the C.O.'s steely eyes was enough. Kennard took a last shot at Moran.