“What happened?” gurgled the captain. “Or do you always come down that way?”
Finley wet his lips with his tongue. Seemed as if he did always come down that way, at that.
“Wiped the under-carriage off at McCook,” he drawled equably. “There’s a ship landing to bring me home right now, I guess. Will you have the boys clean up the fire?”
“Sure. Want a drink?”
He did, but he shook his head. Somehow he wanted to escape before the other officers at Wilbur Wright gathered around to ask questions.
“That’s Dick Redding, I think, after me.”
He walked out to meet the McCook ship, and Redding, who had succeeded Finley as chief test pilot, motioned to the rear cockpit. As Finley got in, Redding threw a “Glad you got out all right!” over his shoulder, and took off without delay.
As they walked side by side, back at McCook, from the line to the flying office Finley could barely restrain himself from bursting into wild self-condemnation. Why was wiry, weatherbeaten little Redding so quiet? Finley wondered as he threw cheerful answers to the questions which bombarded him from mechanics.
“Well,” Redding said finally, “The Larkin’s not much loss, at that. She was due.”