Finley’s animosity toward him grew in strength. That the Kink was like an annoying hornet, buzzing around him constantly in an endeavor to sting him, was not important. Forell grew to blame Finley for his ostracism, and never missed an opportunity to get in a dig. That didn’t matter. A fat-headed young fool like Forell couldn’t affect Finley’s peace of mind for a moment.
Rather, the older man’s dislike was the result of his utter contempt for Forell’s blind insanity. There was a bird with a brilliant future, he reflected a thousand times, who was throwing away his chances for an ideal life, through sheer egotism. A born aerial engineer, a flying genius, young, handsome, loving his work—why, the Kink could be one of the biggest men in the service, and an asset to it.
But because he was a stubborn, unbearably conceited brat, a year or so would see him dead, or an outcast, unless he mended his ways. Never had he been so cocky and domineering, nor his tongue so nasty, as now, when the dislike of his fellow-pilots was something tangible in the very atmosphere.
But he was showing the strain, Finley observed when he met him one Saturday morning in the adjutant’s office. The Kink’s lean face was thinner, he was somewhat pale, and there was an unhealthy glitter in his eyes as he said—
“What are you doing here?”
“Got to see the major at ten.”
“That’s funny as ——! So’ve I! What does he want with the two of us?”
“You go in together,” the adjutant informed them. “Shoot!”
The C.O. was standing behind his desk, a paper in his hands.
“Morning, gentlemen. Get ready to take off in a Briston as soon as you can pack a bag,” he said crisply. “The reserve squadron down at Nashville are dedicating a hangar they’ve built on some lot they’ve leased for a flying field. They’re getting a couple of Jennies to get in flying practise on. There’s a banquet tonight. Forell, you give ’em a flying exhibition this afternoon. Finley, they want you for a speech at the banquet tonight. Don’t go crazy, Forell—just give ’em a little show.