“Uh-huh. But I ought to be given twenty kicks in the pants and the booby prize! Thinking about everything else but flying! When that pocket hit me I was in dreamland.”
They were going up the steps, and as they approached the door of the office some one was talking as if he were laying down the law.
“—kill himself, I tell you! There’s something the matter with him! Why, how in —— could—”
Redding fairly threw himself in front of Finley, and pushed the door open. Sudden silence fell over the four flyers who were lounging around on the desks.
“Got out without a scratch, eh?” queried fat, blond “Brad” Sparks. “Well, you can’t kick!”
Kink Forell’s loud laugh rang out.
“Let’s see, Finley, this makes you a German ace, doesn’t it? You’ve brought down five American ships within a month.”
“That’s nothing,” Redding slid in. “I once—”
“—— if you haven’t got the world’s record for short landings!” The vibrant youngster went on loudly. “When you land a ship, it doesn’t roll a foot!”
Finley despised himself for the inclination he had to answer the cocky Forell in blazing words. It was hard to control himself.