He forced his mind away from that subject. His eyes rested on the Barling triplane. There was a ship! Weighing fourteen tons and capable of carrying six tons more; six Liberty motors to fly it and a crew of six men necessary to handle it properly, it was truly the leviathan of the air. What it portended for the future of aviation was something which the mind of a Finley could speculate upon forever.
“Jim! Jim Finley!”
It was the C.O.’s voice, and it cut through the drone of King Forell’s twelve cylinder motor, now three thousand feet overhead. Finley turned and saw the major standing with a group of men alongside some expensive motor cars.
“Those Congressmen from Washington,” he remembered, and walked toward them.
“This is Jim Finley, gentlemen,” the major said jovially, and went on to introduce him.
“These gentlemen were discussing the first test flight of the Barling, Jim,” he went on, “and I was telling them that you were the man who hopped it off, just as you came along.
“At that time,” he pursued, turning to the interested Congressmen, “Finley was chief test pilot of the Air Service. He flew the Barling when it had never been off the ground before, and did a great job.”
One stout, jovial legislator shook his head smilingly.
“That must take a unique and extraordinary brand of nerve,” he stated. “In fact, having your job must mean a continuous succession of—”
“We took him off a few months ago,” the major interrupted with a quick look at Finley, “to give him a rest.”