“Well,” he drawled. “You boys seem to be eating with a corpse.”
“Huh?” barked Redding.
“Just saw the doc,” Finley went on, his eyes busy with his plate as he shook three times as much salt on it as he wanted. “It seems that my dandruff is gradually making me just a shell of my former self, and the left tonsil, I believe, is about to explode. And my halitosis—why, it’s a wonder I’m alive!”
“What happened?” demanded Brad Sparks, looking squarely into Finley’s eyes.
“I’m taken off flying,” Finley said calmly.
“I told you so!”
It was Kink Forell, just taking his seat.
“So you took my tip, eh? I knew it was the thing to do. You’d of killed yourself in another week. You get old young in this game!”
Finley’s brows knit. —— the weakness which made him bridle at every cocky word of Forell’s. The red-head had his goat. Just then his words had been a crow of triumph, Finley thought, because he, Forell, had called the turn.
“I wish to —— you’d get old enough soon to keep your mouth shut once in a while,” Fairbanks told him levelly, but the Kink did not resent it. He was in high good humor.