With that swarm of spectators intent on his every move, the Kink was inspired. Finley watched him send the Briston hurtling across the sky in a breath-taking dive, upside down, and then bring the ship out of it through a straight nose dive that drew shrieks from the women and awed comments from the men. It darted upward on its tail, spinning a full turn, and there was speed enough left under Forell’s handling to allow him to arch it over on its back once more. For a moment it gathered speed, upside down, and then did a complete roll which left it upside down again. Another instant to gather speed, and he had flopped it over on an even keel once more.
Finley, his eyes shining with admiration, told the reserve officers—
“There, boys, is about the best stunt pilot you’ll ever look at!”
Shortly afterward the two McCook men left the field in the cars of their hosts. Finley was to stay with a young lawyer who was plainly honored to have him as a guest, and by the time several fingers of mountain dew, collected in the shine of the moon, had done its work, he was having an excellent time.
The banquet, it appeared, was not restricted to the reserve squadron, for there were fully five hundred people around the tables when Finley got up to speak.
He was surprized at their absorbed attention. He did not realize that the passion for the air which had absorbed him for eighteen years shone through his slow, almost halting words, and made them live. He was stunned at the solid applause when he sat down.
The toastmaster was on his feet.
“You know who you’ve been listening to,” he told the enthusiastic crowd. “One of America’s greatest pilots. Here’s where the program is supposed to end, and it’s getting late, but I think we all feel like just a word or two from Lieutenant Forell.”
Kink leaped to his feet, his face flushed and his words tumbling over themselves as the applause smote him.
“All I can say is that you’ve been listening to a man who can’t fly any more, so what he says means something. He knows, and he—can’t do any more to develop the game. That’s what lays ahead of all flyers—either have to quit, worn out and through, or get killed. But who cares? It’s the greatest game in the world!”