Читать книгу Mark Gilmore, Speed Flyer - Percy Keese Fitzhugh - Страница 7

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The buildings housing the offices of the rival airlines faced the great airport field and were situated within about five hundred feet of each other. Arty pointed this out to Mark as the Kent D-2 swished down the runway and stopped. Both buildings were ablaze with light.

“We’re expected,” said Arty, pointing to the modest electric sign displaying the name Inter-Mountain Airways, Inc.

“Looks as if I am too,” said Richie Benson from the doorway of the cockpit where he was standing. He waved his large, tanned hand toward the building adjacent where the Dawson-Inland Airlines displayed their name in four feet of electricity. “Can’t miss that, hah?” he added with a sardonic grin.

“That’s as much as Rumson ever shows of himself,” Arty returned sarcastically. “Nobody hardly ever sees him in the daylight. He skims around here at night—I guess that’s so folks won’t get such a good look at him and use that impression for future evidence.”

Benson scowled. “Sounds to me like you and your father’s outfit are nothin’ but a bunch of soreheads,” he snapped, and moved for the fuselage door. “Sour grapes and that kinder thing. Well, on my way.”

Mark scrambled up on his feet. “Rich, you can fly this crate back east if you want to right now. I’ll only be laying it up, except on occasions. What do you say?”

“What do I want with it?” Benson returned, half-smiling. “Why should I want to fly back east right now? I’ve had enough for tonight, thank you, and besides I intend to telegraph Missouri and see what can be salvaged of my bus. It ought to be heading for St. Louis by this time and if luck is with me I’ll have her whipped back into shape by the time I kiss this job goodbye. So don’t worry about how I’m going back east again, Mark. I’ll have my old buggy or buy another one. But what’s the use of talking about going back now, hah? That won’t be for a long time if I know what I’m doing.”

“Rich,” said Mark crisply, “before you go over and sign any contract with that man, think what you’re doing! Don’t let him help you to put yourself in a halter because it won’t be so easy to get out. I’ve a hunch, Rich. There’s still time to back out and fly this crate back east. You determined to go?”

“Yes, grandma,” Benson said and laughed aloud. “For once I’m going to do as I want to do and not take your advice. You and your hunches! Ha, ha! Think I’m going to throw a nice, fat salary over my shoulder just on account of your say so? Watch me! I’ll be seeing you, Mark.”

He was gone but his taunting laugh seemed to linger. Mark shrugged his shoulders and prepared to put his plane into a nearby hangar at Arty’s instigation. He went about it mechanically, for his eyes were following the short, broad figure of Benson who was trudging along the edge of the field toward the Dawson-Inland offices.

“Oh, well,” he said half aloud, “maybe I am cooking up things. Maybe that fellow’s not as bad as he’s painted.”

“Huh?” Arty asked. “What fellow?”

“Rumson. I’m hoping that he’s better than you think he is.”

Arty said nothing until after they had left the hangar. The capable hands of mechanics were already busy going over Mark’s plane and making it ready for him when he should be free from duty.

“I’ve only told you what I know from hearsay, Red, that’s all. I agree with you that maybe things aren’t really as bad as they’re supposed to be with Rumson. Lots of folks have the name without ever having played the game, huh? Let’s hope it’s that way with him. Just the same I’d rather my father gets that contract. It would make it look better for the town—our planes and everything are in so much better shape.”

“Civic pride, huh?” Mark teased.

“Oh, I suppose so. But I hate things done on a shabby scale, don’t you? Rumson’s things are all shabby. Even his offices. You’d agree with me if you ever saw them. That’s why it looks as if he wants all the dough for himself and not for his business. Anyway, we should worry about him. I wouldn’t worry about Benson either if I were you. He’s an ungrateful egg, that’s what I think.”

“Richie’s got a good side or I wouldn’t be bothered with him,” said Mark firmly. “It wouldn’t be natural for him not to have, with the mother he’s got. He has to inherit something of her and as long as she’s alive ... well, I’ll tag after him as best I can.”

Savory odors from a nearby lunch wagon assailed Mark’s nostrils. He was just about to suggest a snack when Arty reminded him that they were at the door of the Inter-Mountain offices.