“Not exactly,” he said with difficulty, moistening his lips. He felt as if he was on trial. “The throttle stuck a minute, and the motor was turning up pretty fast—”
“Listen to Alibi Ike!” jeered Dumpy. “Had much time on D.H.’s?”
Moran’s eyes were stormy, his heavy face set. ⸺ this cocky, nasty little runt—
“Why,” he began, moistening his lips, “I—”
“Dry up, Dumpy,” drawled Tex MacDowell easily. “Likewise, lay off. What the ⸺ are you catechizing about?”
“Hello, here comes Jimmy Jennings, and my ship’s coming out. Come on, Pop!” Dumpy exclaimed, forgetting everything else.
He ran for his helmet and goggles as Moran watched the incoming patrolship enter the field. He knew who Jimmy Jennings was. A border veteran, and an ace.
The big D.H. roared across the airdrome, from the east, circled a hundred feet north of the field, and suddenly tilted on one wing. Down it came in a terrific sideslip, its nose parallel to the fence. Thirty feet above the ground it dived out of the slip, nose coming around toward the field, and as it came across the fence the pilot skidded it sidewise to kill speed.
Starting two hundred feet high, only a few yards back of the fence, the pilot had brought the ship to the ground as lightly as a feather, within twenty-five yards of the fence, and stopped rolling a little more than halfway across the field.
“That’s flying,” Shag thought humbly.