READY TO FIGHT.
It wasn’t hard to spot the field on which they were making “War
Aces”--or at least a part of it. It was a level stretch, between
rolling hills. There were shell holes, home-made but real warlike,
at one end. At the other end of the stretch there were three ships.
Two of them were small, single-seaters. One, I guessed, was a baby
Nieuport. Ed Seeley had one of those, but he wasn’t doing any crash
stuff with it, I knew that.
As we circled over, I saw that they were working on the Old Lady.
Probably they were rigging up a couple of dummy guns, or trying to
make her look like a D.H. or a bomber of some type. It was hard to
figure just what they could make the Old Lady look like--but they do
queer things in the movies.
I cut the throttle, and glided down. Bob Brooks yelled at me above the
whistling of wind through the flying wires: “We’ll be in time! They’re
trying to camouflage the Old Lady!”
I nodded, and brought the D.H. down into the wind. We made a fair
landing, and I taxied around and rolled back toward the three planes.
The crowd was watching me come up, and some of the bunch on the field
were staring up at the other boys.
We rolled fairly close to the parked ships, and I cut the switch. Bob
and I climbed down, and we were met at the wing tip by a scowling Russ
Healy. Beside him was this fellow Conant, short and stocky--and dolled
up as though he were going to play a round or two of championship golf.
Brooks grinned. “Hello, boys!” he greeted them. “Just paying you a
little visit. Sort of a social call. How’s the picture coming along?”
Conant smiled. “It’ll be all right now,” he said cheerfully. “Healy’s
going to do some crashes for us--and some war air stuff. If we could
work you boys in----” He stopped.
Bob Brooks was shaking his head slowly. “Russ isn’t going to do any
crashes for you--not in the Old Lady! And you can’t work us in, Conant.”
Russ Healy swore softly.
Conant looked sort of amused.
There was a crowd of picture people around us by this time, but the
other boys were setting their ships down on the field. I wasn’t worried
much.
“If it’s a matter of money----” Conant said.
“It isn’t,” Brooks interrupted him. Then he grinned.
I could see that Brooks was trying to get out of it peaceably, if he
could, and I had my doubts about that.
“You see,” Brooks continued, “we sort of like Russ around the outfit.
Sometimes he has careless ideas, but he’s not doing any crashing for
you--get that straight!”
Conant stiffened and smiled in a rather superior manner.
Just then Al Rodgers and Dave Simmons shoved their way to our side.
Bob Brooks grinned. “Did Duke go over to the Old Lady?” he asked
Simmons.
Simmons nodded. “With his best pair of pliers,” he said cheerfully, and
I saw Russ Healy straighten up and his face get hard.
Brooks nodded. “Russ,” he said slowly, “suppose you come along back with
us. You can ride me back in the Old Lady. Maybe I was a little hasty
about that ship. Maybe we can frame some way of taking her----”
“Not a chance!” Russ interrupted hotly. “You fellows clear off this
field. If they don’t clear off, Conant----”
Conant nodded his head slowly.
I looked at the director, but I spoke to Bob Brooks. “I’ll take this
little runt,” I told him. “And I won’t need that set of brass knuckles
unless they get to piling on me too thick.”
Dave Simmons chuckled. Dave’s about the biggest pilot in captivity,
and he likes a good, uneven scrap. “I’m glad we came over,” he said
cheerfully. “Better shoot this stuff, Conant. It’ll make good war
stuff.”