“And a —— of a rest, too,” Finley said with his slow grin. “Hauling the oldest hulks on the field around.”
“A contrast to flying the newest, eh?” laughed one of the Washington men. “Well, I congratulate you on being the first man to fly that—that monster there. And doing it successfully.”
“No credit to me,” Finley explained. “I flew a lot before the war, was an instructor a week after it broke out and shortly after that was sent to the Caproni school in Italy. They’re three-motored babies, you know, so big ships have been my dish.”
“Well, I guess Forell is about ready,” the major said, somewhat awkwardly.
He seemed ill at ease, Finley noticed, when the past was mentioned.
“Glad to have met you all.”
Finley smiled, and started for his ship. Forell was evidently going to give the visitors an exhibition. Well, no one could do a better job.
Despite himself, his mind roved back to that day when he had tested the Barling, and particularly to the banquet which the manufacturers had given that night in a Dayton hotel. The chief himself had been there, and as toastmaster he had introduced—
“Undoubtedly the best big-ship pilot in America—Jim Finley!”
All in all, that had been the high point of his flying career, Finley admitted, as his eyes caressed the great ship which lorded it over the line.