STICKING TO HIS PLANE.
Russ Healy always insisted that the old girl understood. But Russ was
that rare sort of creature--a flyer who was sentimental. Of course, on
the face of things, it was sheer rot. A plane is an inanimate object,
theoretically--and therefore incapable of understanding. But Russ didn’t
look at it that way. There was no doubt about the fact that he loved the
Jenny.
He’d picked her up right after the war, on a government sale. She hadn’t
been flown at all, and Russ had worked with her ever since that time.
He’d joy-hopped her, taken a chance on air advertising, smoke writing,
stunting. He’d even done some air surveying with her, and I think he
chased boll weevils, down South, at one time--spraying from the Jenny.
She’d cracked up with him more than once, but Russ would just patch
her up--and patch himself up. She wasn’t a pretty sight. She was
dirty--oil-stained, her wing fabric of varied colors, her struts
lacking varnish. She sagged a bit on her under carriage. But her
flying wires were right; she was rigged properly for the air. She was
slow, of course--powered by an old Hall-Scott engine, and sluggish on
the controls, compared to the new ships. Just an old lady, that was
all she was--an old lady, still turning a prop and taking the air,
but pretty far out of date.
We had eight ships in the circus, and five pilots. That is, we had
five fliers who could do more than get off and land. A couple of the
grease monkeys could qualify--indeed, had qualified--for a license,
but that doesn’t make a flyer--not by about a thousand air hours and
considerable natural ability. However, when we made the jump from the
outskirts of one town to the outskirts of another, the two mechanics
each flew a ship, and Bob Brooks, who ran the Brooks’ Flying Circus,
flew the other. That got the eight ships around, and made a nice
showing in the sky.
It was Bob Brooks’ wife who started the thing. She was a peach, and Bob
was crazy about her. I didn’t blame him.
We ran into a streak of tough luck. Charlie Ryan crashed on a landing,
and both he and his mechanic, riding in the rear cockpit, were badly
smashed up. Then Duke Conroy got in a spin, out of a side-slip--and we
had to leave him at the hospital pretty badly hurt.
It was then that Bob’s wife had her little say. It was, in effect, that
her good-looking husband keep both feet on the ground.
We stayed around Los Angeles, picking up a few movie jobs, and looking
at the mountains and the Pacific from the air until the boys came out
of the hospital. We lost a little money.
Then Bob Brooks called us into the big tent we slung up on the field in
which we were parking, and gave us a little talk. “I’m giving the air
the air,” he said. “I never did do much but ferry. I’ve got too much
brain.” He grinned, and so did we. “And now I’m not even ferrying. So
we’ve got to cut down a bit. We’ll drop two ships. Vance Bailey has
bought that Standard. Now, about the other----”
Brooks’ eyes went to those of Russ Healy, and we knew right away what
was coming. It gave me a jolt, because I knew Russ--and I knew the way
he felt. And I guess it gave the others a jolt, too.
“About the other,” Bob repeated uncomfortably, “I guess we’ll have to
let the ‘Old Lady’ go, Russ.”
Well, there it was. Russ Healy blinked a couple of times. He’s tall and
lean, with gray, squinted eyes--and usually there’s a tight little smile
playing around his lips. But the smile wasn’t there now.
Healy shook his head slowly. Then he got a pill from the pack. “If you
do,” he said very slowly, “I’ll just go along with her.”
Bob Brooks frowned. “You can have the new Waco, Russ. You can do
anything with her. She’s got power, climb, dive. She’s an easy
rider----”
“I’m sticking with the Old Lady,” Russ said quietly. “When do you want
me to cut loose?”
I saw then that Brooks was getting sore. Russ Healy was a sweet stunt
flyer; in fact, he was a good man all around when it came to air stuff.
There wasn’t much that Russ couldn’t do, or hadn’t done.
“Look here!” Brooks said. “We can’t fly a ship around if there’s no one
to climb inside and get at the stick. You don’t expect me to let a new
plane drop--and hang on to a rambling wreck? Why, that Jenny is liable
to fall to pieces in the first spin you get her into, and----”
Russ Healy’s eyes narrowed. “Think so?” He spoke grimly. “Well, I’ll
just take her up there now--and loop you ragged, and then I’ll come
down in the tightest spin----”
“Yes you will! Not with _me_!” Brooks’ face was flushed.
“That’s right,” Russ said grimly. “I forgot you were quitting the air.”
It was his tone that did it. And they had both flared, were both pretty
hot.
Bob Brooks glared at Russ. “I’m not quitting the air until we hit Tia
Juana,” the boss said slowly. “I’ll fly the Waco down. You can take
that wreck of yours--and cut loose, any time you like. What do we owe
you?”
Russ Healy smiled. “Not a cent,” he said. “I owe _you_ fifty bucks--the
final payment on that last wreck replacement material for the Old Lady.
I’ll see that you get it by dark.”
Then he turned and walked away.