QUICK ACTION NEEDED.
Bob Brooks looked at me, shook his head slowly. I was frowning.
The boys were talking together in low tones.
“Not so good, Bob!” I said. “You’re cutting loose the most popular guy
in the outfit--and just because he sticks by his old bus.”
Brooks didn’t see it that way. He spoke to the rest of the gang: “We’re
losing money. I can’t fly all the ships we’ve got. Why should I get rid
of the new ones--just because I’m sentimental? This is a business--not
a sob factory!”
There was common sense in that. We could see Brooks’ side of it. And the
sky-riding game hadn’t been so good lately--something had to be done.
“I think a lot of Russ Healy,” Brooks went on, looking at each one of us
in turn. “Even if he did hint that I was showing yellow by sticking on
the ground--I like him. Some of you boys talk to him. He could store
that ship up at Al Garvin’s hangar. Then every month or so I’ll give him
a day off, and if he’s close enough he can come back and pet it.”
With that final sarcasm, Bob Brooks walked out of the tent. I chased
after him, having just had an idea. They don’t come very often, but
sometimes they’re good when they do come.
“Russ is sore, Bob,” I said, “and he owes you fifty bucks. He’s going to
try to get that fifty. I happen to know that he hasn’t got it. And he’s
going to try to show you up--show you that the Old Lady can still do her
stuff. Now--how’s he going to do it?”
Bob frowned. “He isn’t! He’s just talking.”
“You know better than that,” I replied. “He isn’t that kind. I’ll tell
you what he’s going to do--he’s going to tackle the ‘War Aces’ job!”
That got Bob. That job happened to be one which had been turned down by
three flying outfits and a half dozen joy-hoppers who were going it
alone. A fellow named Conant was directing a picture of war-flying days,
and he wanted some crash stuff. He was willing to pay for it, and he
didn’t expect the pilot to kill himself. But he wanted a crash--and some
tight, low spins that wouldn’t be easy.
“Russ wouldn’t do that job,” Bob said. “He’s too wise for that.”
“But he’s sore,” I repeated. “It gives him a chance to show you what the
Old Lady can do--in the air. And it gives him a chance to hand you the
fifty and tell you----”
An exhaust roar cut me short. We both stared toward the dead-line. There
was only one ship out of the canvas hangars, and it was the Old Lady,
the Jenny.
I swore softly. “Stop him, Bob! Stall him off. He’s going to fly over to
that field where they’re doing the air-shoot on----”
“Come on!” yelled Brooks, and ran toward the ship. I followed. We
dodged through the wash of the Old Lady’s prop; her engine was being
tested with blocks under the wheels. We both climbed up on a wing as
Russ Healy cut the throttle and eliminated most of the exhaust roar.
“Forget about that fifty, Russ.” Bob Brooks grinned. “We’ll call it
square. Where are you going----”
Brooks stopped.
There was a faint smile playing about Healy’s lips; his eyes were
narrowed.
“Get off that wing, Brooks!” Russ’ tone was hard. “I’m going to put
the Old Lady through some stunts that you’ll pay coin to look at! And
you’ll have your fifty, all right. This old girl has made plenty for
you--she’ll make that fifty----”
“Forget it!” Bob said. “If you try to do picture stuff with this----”
“Get off that wing!” Russ shouted, his face white. He knew what was
coming--what _would_ have come. “Get off--or I’ll bounce you off. Take
those blocks away, Bud!”
“Russ,” I yelled desperately, “Bob didn’t exactly mean that about the
Old Lady. Cool down and----”
The ship rolled forward from the dead-line. I jumped off the trailing
edge of the wing. The prop wash caught me and bowled me over a few
times. Something battered against me. I sat up to find Bob Brooks
sitting beside me. The Old Lady was climbing off the field--cross
wind.
We got up and watched her climb. I thought, for a few seconds, that Russ
might just take her up a few thousand and do some stunts. But he didn’t.
He headed her northeast, and flew in a straight line. He didn’t even
bother to get altitude.
I groaned. “He’s heading dead for that field in the hills--where they’re
making ‘War Aces!’ He’ll kill himself, sure as----”
Bob Brooks swore softly. Then he smiled. “He owes me money on that
plane! It’ll take time to get cameras set up. They may not be working
today. Anyway, it’ll all take time. We’ll climb in the D.H. 6 and fly
over. I’ll talk to Conant--he can’t use Russ----”
“He’ll hand you the fifty and tell you to clear out,” I interrupted.
“And Russ’ll raise the devil if you try to cut in on him.”
Bob Brooks groaned. “They’ll say I rode him into being bumped off! He’ll
get all smashed--we’ve _got_ to do something!”
I nodded. “What?” I asked simply. And that was the question.