“Don’t mind Dumpy,” Slim Evans advised him spaciously. “Dumpy firmly believes he’s the world’s best flyer, frankly admits it on every provocation, and the ⸺ of it is that he’s ⸺ near right!”
“What are you going to do with a man that brags all night, and then goes out and proves the next day that he can live up to his bragging?” grinned Kennard.
“Every new man is a prospective rival to him,” Slim went on, “and he tries to put said rookie in his place. But he’s a great little cuss when you get to know him—”
“Watch him prove something now.”
Moran watched, and held his breath. Dumpy took off from the northern end of the field, cleared the buildings, and then turned back. He swooped low across the ground on his return trip, and then, for a full minute, he showed what could be done with a big bomber in the hands of a master. He chased his own tail like a gargantuan dragon fly, tipping the D.H. up into vertical banks in which the lower wingtip was only inches off the ground. One final rush across the field, another zoom in which the ship stood on its tail and appeared to climb up the side of the recreation building, and he was off.
“That’s him, himself,” grinned Hickman, who was almost as big as Moran. “You gave him an opening by springing those alibies.”
“They weren’t alibies—”
“The ⸺ they weren’t,” Kennard advised him. “We listen to too many of ’em down here. This field’s tough the first few times, and good flyers’ve ⸺ near starved to death, they had to go around so many times. And every ⸺ one with an alibi, instead of admitting it. Like you.”
Hurt, Moran stiffened.
“Well, alibi or no alibi, that little squirt, Scarth, better not buzz around too much, kidding people he don’t know,” he said gruffly. “Captain, can I be shown to my tent to clean up?”