A loud laugh resounded from the ceiling as young “Kink” Forell came out of the locker-room, helmet and coveralls on, goggles swinging in his hand, his parachute under his arm.
“Lieutenant James Finley, official scavenger of ships for McCook Field!” he gibed, his boldly handsome face twisted into a mirthless grin. “Gosh, you’ll save the survey officer more trouble before this year is out, Finley, than any flyer in the army.”
He stopped at the door to get in the last words. Radiant vitality oozed from every pore of the tall young flyer, and his greenish-gray eyes were sparkling.
Hot words rose to Finley’s lips, which was unusual. If they did come there was an undercurrent of humor in them, as there had been when he had raved querulously at the sergeant. But Kink Forell could rub him the wrong way every time.
However, his habitual repression saved him, and he said mildly—
“Beat it, King, and do your stuff instead of talking it.”
He went into the locker-room and got his flying clothes, coming out on the outside platform with a determined grin on his square, snub-nosed face. The freckles stood out prominently, as if he were slightly pale.
The foremost airplane laboratory in the world was spread before him as he descended the stairs as if walking in his sleep. Drawn up in front of the row of hangars was a collection of ships, some of which might have been the fruit of a designer’s nightmare. Motors upside down, monoplanes, triplanes, ships with both pontoons and wheels on them; single seaters, two seaters, ships that could carry eight men; the little Sperry, a gnat of the air with a tiny three cylinder motor, was ranged alongside the mighty Barling bomber.
For once Finley’s mind did not indulge itself in a comparison of some of those shining ships with the craft of his own early days in the air. King Forell was taking off, he noticed, in one of the new pursuit jobs.
As the stalwart flyer walked up the line, seat-pack parachute under his arm, he was searching for the ship he was to fly. There it was, its dope cracked and discolored with age, looking the veteran it was. In fact, a fit ship for a has-been to fly.