His to fly

One Parachute and Two Men--and the Ship Couldn’t Land. What Happened?

A biplane on the further side of five years, but spruce enough, considering her age, stood silent at the edge of a New Jersey meadow, while a thin, sandy-haired young man in dungarees ministered to her numerous wants with a pair of pliers.

He was busy on the interwing wires, methodically tightening or loosening turnbuckles according to his idea of rigging. From this work he looked up with a nod when a rickety flivver rolled up to the edge of the field and his partner, “Beak” Becket, got out.

Though Beak had been to town merely to get some cigarettes and to transact a small business matter, he wore the full regalia of a pilot--leather coat, whipcord knickers and glistening Cordovan puttees. On his head, accentuating the eagle-like curve of his brown nose, was a new leather helmet, with tabs unfastened. His eyes were habitually fierce, also like an eagle’s, and now they seemed fiercer than usual to Jerry Tabor.

When the flivver driver had been paid, Beak took off his fine jacket, lit a cigarette and strolled over to the plane. With the removal of his coat, Beak had also removed something else--something less tangible, perhaps, but none the less apparent. For the coat had concealed the fact that Beak’s whipcord knickers fitted him a bit too snugly and that his stomach ran his chest a close race in the matter of prominence.

Beak Becket glowered at his partner. He kicked a chock vigorously out of the way. Then he tested the tension of one of the wires with a grip of his hand and scowled at the young man in dungarees. Jerry looked up with a certain apprehension in his face.

“You get some of the strain off those lift wires, and do it in a hurry, too,” Beak said petulantly. “Don’t you know yet that lift wires should be slack when she rests on the ground?”

“That wire was so loose it vibrated like a harp cord when I test-hopped her,” Jerry Tabot explained mildly. “I’ll take some out, Beak, but----”

“You test-hopped her!” Beak repeated, in a tone of derision. “What does a wing walker know about test-hopping? About as much as a fish knows about ice skating. You leave test-hopping to me, my boy.”

Jerry got red under his sunburn.

“If I’m not a pilot as well as a wing walker, you got money under false pretenses, Beak,” he answered steadily.

“Made his solo three months ago--and thinks he can tell me when a ship is rigged right!” the older aviator remarked caustically to some unseen spectator. “He’ll be claiming he invented planes in another three months.”

Jerry stirred, as if under the lash of a whip. Nevertheless, he showed a placating grin. It was always possible that Beak had run into some particularly bad liquor and that he could be kidded out of his fit of temper.

“What’s the matter, Beak?” Jerry inquired. “Did another race horse sit down on you? You ought to stick to flying. Betting on races is risky.”

“When I need your advice, kid, it’ll be because everybody else is dead!” Beak snapped. He ignored the smile. “You slack off that wire, d’you hear? We’re going to hop out of this Godforsaken neighborhood right away. It’s as full of barnstorming planes as a dog is of fleas.”

Jerry looked at the senior partner in surprise.

“I thought we’d been doing pretty good business, myself, Beak,” he commented.

“Don’t think. Work!” Beak meditated, scowling at his puttees. “I’m getting pretty low down, I am,” he said aloud. “Me, Beak Becket, one of the pioneers in the flying game--one of the few of ’em left--being given orders by my own mechanic and wing walker! I’ve flown before kings and presidents and shaken hands with ’em afterward; I’ve thrilled millions with my daring-- and now a kid I picked up and learned to fly tells me where I get off.”

“I understood we were partners, Beak, I having supplied the money for this ship and you having taught me to fly and having the experience,” Jerry said steadily.

“_He_ thinks we been doing pretty good business, he does,” Beak went on, addressing the air. “Since when, even if they are partners, did a dirty-faced, wing-walking crowd catcher stand knee high to a flying man?”

Jerry Tabor gripped his pliers tightly, then slipped them into a pocket and turned to face the other man.

“Beak, you and I don’t seem to be hitting it off as well as we might, lately,” he said. “I reckon half of it’s my fault, anyhow.”

“You’re right; half of it and more, kid. Telling a man like me, one of the best-known pilots in the world, where to get off because I venture to say that flying wire’s too taut!”

Jerry sighed.

“_And_ throwing it in my face all the time that it was his money that bought the ship!” Beak added.

Jerry unbuttoned the dungaree coat.

“That does it, Beak,” he said. “I don’t mind being your mechanic and wing walker and just getting a chance at the stock once in a while when the crowd’s thin or you don’t feel like flying, but all this talk besides is too much. It don’t help my wing walking any. I nearly lost my grip yesterday. I guess it’s about time we put some air between us.”

Beak blinked at this. There was something decisive about the way Jerry Tabor took off his work clothes. Beak disliked work clothes, himself, and the sight of his partner taking them off raised forebodings. He thought quickly and then spat out his cigarette.

“That suits me fine,” he growled. “The old man’s taught you to fly; he ain’t much more use to you. Go ahead, Jerry; I won’t stand in your way.”

Jerry was a bit staggered at Beak’s ready acceptance. Nevertheless, he remained determined.

“How about the ship and the ’chute?” he asked. “Will you buy me out or will I buy you?”

“You know damn well you’ve got me at a disadvantage, owing to--reverses,” said Beak with dignity. “I can’t buy you out, but you can buy me. I value my half of the ship at five hundred, and my half of the ’chute at fifty. Five hundred and fifty’s the amount.”

Jerry Tabor opened his eyes wide. There was a gleam of anger in them. “Why the ship only cost seven fifty when I--we--bought it six months ago!”

“That was before I had it lined up right and the wings partly recovered,” Beak answered coldly.

“But--it was I that did most of the work on her!” Jerry protested. He was holding himself in with a great effort.

“And it was I that did most of the flying. You think you can freeze me out of this ship because you have a little ready cash tucked away? Guess again and guess better!”

“I can’t pay it,” Jerry said, dispirited. “I haven’t got that much.”

“That’s not my fault,” said Beak. “If you want to go, go ahead, and I’ll pay you for your share of the ship--when I can.”

He looked at Jerry keenly. Jerry looked at the plane.

“Where this ship goes--that’s my post-office address,” Jerry declared emphatically.