“Sort of hard on wheels, though, my method is,” he said slowly, a set smile on his face.
“Prettiest landing I ever saw!” gibed Forell, hard mockery in his eyes. “Perfect dive, great leveling off, tail skid down just as she was losing speed—ten feet in the air! Boy! What a darb that one was! I never—”
“Shut up, Kink!” snapped Redding. “Come on Jim, let’s get the report out of the way and shoot it over!”
“Why don’t you issue muzzles along with helmets around here?” snapped Forell, his eyes flashing his resentment at the curt command. “I suppose I hurt the poor old boy’s feelings, eh? I’m sorry, papa, if I caused any tears.”
“Are you going to talk all day, for ——’s sake?” exploded Redding. “For the love of Mike get out of here until this report’s fixed up, will you?”
“No. I’m not ready yet. Listen, Finley, though, on the level. You ought to get out of this flying game. You get old young in this racket, and you’ll kill yourself before you know it. I’ll bet the flight surgeon’d find more things wrong with your eyes than—”
“Oh, ——,” breathed big Franklin wearily. He darted a look at Finley, who was seated at the desk. “Say, Kink, I need a little advice, too. Have you any suggestions to make as to how I can improve my cross-country?”
“—— if you don’t need some, at that!” the youngster shot back nastily. “You get lost enough. Well, so long. I’m going to town. Better take my tip, papa, on the doc.”
He slammed the door after him. Brad Sparks’ round, good-natured face wore a frown as he remarked—
“In just about six months the Kink’s going to know so much that he won’t be worth a single, solitary ——!”