Читать книгу White Wings and Blue Water - George E. Rochester - Страница 4
ОглавлениеBOWKER’S BURDEN
“If Ogden Pugg is coming with us, he’s not aboard yet,” said Beth, as Buck followed her up the steps into the big, luxuriously furnished passenger saloon. “At least, if he is I haven’t seen him.”
“No, nor I,” said Buck. “Old Bowker is probably still trying to get the marmalade out of his hair.”
“He’ll need a pretty good shampoo to get that out,” laughed Beth.
She turned to Miss Hayward, the smartly uniformed air hostess of the Falcon, who chatted pleasantly with them as she escorted them to their seats.
“There seems quite a number of new faces aboard this morning,” commented Buck, who, having been with the aircraft since she left London airport, had no difficulty in spotting any newcomers.
“Yes, we have eight new passengers,” said the air hostess. “Two of them haven’t turned up yet, though, and we’re due to take off within a few minutes.
“That’ll be Ogden Pugg and his pal, Mr. Bowker,” observed Buck. “Will the aircraft wait for them if they’re late?”
“She might wait a few minutes,” replied Miss Hayward. “It rests entirely with Mr. Ferguson, the traffic manager, whether he holds her or not. But we like to fly strictly to schedule on this company.”
She moved away for’ard towards the open doorway of the saloon. On the tarmac, Mr. Ferguson, a tall, spare, grey-haired gentleman, was anxiously consulting his watch.
“He’s wondering whether or not to wait for Ogden,” said Buck, watching him through the saloon windows. “He knows who Ogden is, of course. Raynor’s just said so. So he’ll probably stretch a point and keep the kite waiting a bit.”
“But why should he?” demanded Beth. “Who’s Ogden Pugg, anyway, that the whole lot of us should be kept waiting just for him?”
“He’s the son of a multi-millionaire,” replied Buck, with a grin. “And, in case you don’t know it, multi-millionaires are terrifically important people. I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if Old Man Pugg could buy up the whole of this air company and give it to Ogden as a present.”
“Then, if he’s all that rich it’s a wonder he hasn’t got his own private aircraft,” said Beth.
“He very probably has,” said Buck. “But I don’t suppose he likes the idea of letting Ogden loose aboard her, in case he sets her on fire for a joke, or something.
“You’ve got something there,” agreed Beth.
She broke off as she and her companion were suddenly joined at the window by a well-dressed man with handsome, clean-cut features, of somewhat swarthy hue. Glancing at him, Buck saw that he was one of the new passengers who had joined the Falcon only that morning.
Taking not the slightest notice of him and Beth, the man stood staring out of the window, his thin lips compressed in a grim-looking line. Then suddenly he swung on his heel, so abruptly that his elbow caught Beth, and strode away from the window.
Staring after him, Buck saw him rejoin three other men, who had also boarded the aircraft only that morning, and the four of them plunged immediately into a low-voiced conversation, not sitting in their seats, but standing grouped close together.
“If you ask me,” said Buck, “that fellow is rather peeved about something.”
“It’s already past the time for taking off, so perhaps that’s why,” suggested Beth. “But, whoever he is, he’s got no manners. He never even said ‘sorry’ when he caught me that dig with his elbow just now.”
“No, he should have done,” agreed Buck. “But, as I’ve said, he looks as though he’s got something on his mind. Hallo, he’s coming back!”
The man had left his three companions and was returning to the window, his swarthy face and tight-lipped mouth more grim-looking than ever.
“We’re pretty late in taking off,” said Buck conversationally, as the other stood looking out of the window.
The remark was completely ignored.
“We’re waiting for a couple of passengers,” went on Buck unabashed. “But I don’t know just how long we’ll wait. It’s up to Mr. Ferguson down there on the tarmac——”
“Here they come now!” rapped the man.
“So they do!” chuckled Buck.
It was an interesting party that was legging it frantically towards the waiting Falcon. In the forefront, a dozen or more paces ahead of the rest of the field, sprinted a long-shanked hotel porter, a suitcase in each hand. Behind him pounded the burly figure of Mr. Bowker, yanking the scuttling and loudly protesting Ogden along by the hand.
Close on the heels of this leading trio came the main body of the field, consisting of airport officials, newshounds, a couple of Press photographers and a miscellany of highly interested spectators who had joined in the race en route.
Maintaining his lead, the long-legged porter reached the Falcon, bounded up the steps to the open doorway of the saloon and pantingly thrust the two suitcases into the hands of the air hostess, who was waiting to receive them and the two belated passengers.
Jumping down from the steps, the porter pocketed the substantial tip which the puffing and perspiring Mr. Bowker handed him, then stood watching with the rest of the party as Mr. Bowker thrust Ogden unceremoniously up the steps in front of him and vanished into the saloon, followed by the vastly relieved Mr. Ferguson.
A few moments later Mr. Ferguson reappeared, ran quickly down the steps and cried:
“All right! Clear away the steps and let her get off!” Then to Raynor, who was watching him from one of the open windows of the control room: “Get airborne, Raynor, as soon as the steps are cleared. Flying Control has already given you the ‘all-clear’ for take off. The runway’s all yours.”
“Righto!” acknowledged the pilot.
He withdrew his head into the control room and the window slid shut. Seating himself at the controls, he opened up the main throttle. As he did so, the drone of the quietly running engines rose to a deafening, pulsating roar and the huge silver-coloured Falcon swept along the runway to lift and go soaring up and up into the cloudless blue of morning.
Meanwhile, in the saloon, Mr. Bowker and the podgy Ogden were sitting puffing and blowing and getting their breath back after their desperate dash to catch the aircraft. Mr. Bowker mopped at his great red face with a big, multi-coloured handkerchief.
Not yet had the pair of them had time to take stock of their fellow-travellers; but as the Falcon thundered over the teeming docks and crowded waterfront and headed westwards out over the glittering blue waters of the Pacific, climbing as she flew, Ogden got sufficient of his puff back to take a good stare all around him.
He did not remain seated in order to do this. There was no shyness of that sort about Ogden. He got to his feet and his dull, gooseberry-like eyes proceeded to travel steadily and inquisitively around the saloon.
“Say, this is a British aircraft, ain’t she?” he demanded of Mr. Bowker.
“Sure!” wheezed that gentleman, still mopping at his perspiring face.
“She looks like an ol’ cab,” sneered Ogden.
Nothing could have been more unjust, for the furnishings and fittings of the aircraft were modern, lavish and luxurious.
Ogden’s scornful gaze travelled on until it came to the well-dressed, swarthy-faced man, who was now sitting playing cards at one of the tables with his three companions.
“Hey, lookit them card-sharps!” he cried shrilly, pointing an accusing and podgy finger. “I bet one of them guys is gonna get skinned good an’ plenty before the other three is through with him.”
“Shut up and siddown, will you?” ordered Mr. Bowker hastily, as the swarthy-faced man turned his head and stared. “Them gents ain’t card-sharps!”
“Ain’t they?” cried Ogden. “All smart-dressed guys what play cards aboard ships is card-sharps. Pop told me, and he knows. Yes, sir, Pop knows!”
“But this ain’t a ship!” protested Mr. Bowker.
“That don’t matter!” cried Ogden. “Card-sharps use aircraft same as ships, Pop says, and he knows!”
The four men had paused in their play and were eyeing the boy coldly and threateningly. Mr. Bowker, noting this, shifted in his seat and grabbed Ogden by an arm.
“For Pete’s sake, shut up and siddown!” he pleaded.
“Shan’t!” squealed Ogden, struggling to release himself. “I can stand up if I want to. Anybody can stand up if he wants to. Leggo my arm, will you? Leggo my arm,” yelled he.
With a piteous glance at the four card-players, Mr. Bowker gave up the unequal struggle and released him. Rubbing his arm, the triumphant Ogden allowed his gooseberry stare to move on around the saloon. Then abruptly he stiffened, glowering in rage and incredulous astonishment at Buck and Beth, who were watching him with undisguised amusement from their seats.
Ogden wheeled on Mr. Bowker.
“Hey, d’you see who’s there?” he yelled, flinging out a podgy, pointing finger again. “D’you see who’s sitting there? It’s that nasty British boy that put the marmalade on my hair. Go and hit him! Go on, go and hit him!”
Before Mr. Bowker could commence to argue, however, Miss Hayward, the air hostess, arrived on the scene.
“What’s the matter?” she enquired pleasantly.
“It’s none of your business!” retorted Ogden, scowling. “Go away!”
He tried to push the girl away, but she stood her ground.
“What exactly is the matter with him?” she enquired of the unhappy Mr. Bowker; then to Ogden, who was still savagely pushing at her: “Will you please stop that?”
“No, I won’t!” cried Ogden. “I don’t want you butting in. If you don’t scram I’ll kick you on the shins!”
“You had better not,” warned the air hostess.
Next instant she gave a cry of pain as Ogden caught her a vicious crack on her silk-stockinged leg. And then it was that history was made, for there rang through the saloon the sound of a passenger’s ears being most soundly boxed by an air hostess, a thing which had never happened before in the whole records of the company.
