Finley strode to the desk of the operations clerk in the flying office
and inquired with a sunny Irish smile--
“Well, what old hulk do I haul around the field for flying time today?”
The grizzled old sergeant’s eyes dropped, and he seemed to mumble his
words in embarrassment as he pawed for a slip.
“The Larkin, sir!”
“What?” exploded Finley. “That superannuated old wreck? What the ----,
sergeant, what the ----? For the last month I’ve been trying to get my
paws on a good ship and all I get are crates that should be in a
museum! ----, I’m sick of--”
“Oh, well, it isn’t your fault.”
A loud laugh resounded from the ceiling as young “Kink” Forell came out
of the locker-room, helmet and coveralls on, goggles swinging in his
hand, his parachute under his arm.
“Lieutenant James Finley, official scavenger of ships for McCook
Field!” he gibed, his boldly handsome face twisted into a mirthless
grin. “Gosh, you’ll save the survey officer more trouble before this
year is out, Finley, than any flyer in the army.”
He stopped at the door to get in the last words. Radiant vitality oozed
from every pore of the tall young flyer, and his greenish-gray eyes
were sparkling.
Hot words rose to Finley’s lips, which was unusual. If they did come
there was an undercurrent of humor in them, as there had been when he
had raved querulously at the sergeant. But Kink Forell could rub him
the wrong way every time.