Читать книгу Mark Gilmore, Speed Flyer - Percy Keese Fitzhugh - Страница 8

Table of Contents

Mark’s interview with the senior Aylesworth was all that Arty had warned him it would be. A highly efficient man he was who seemed to diffuse efficiency with every crisp sentence spoken. He looked at one with alert, penetrating eyes and his heavy jaws had a way of snapping down after each word uttered as if to impress upon his listener the fact that it was to be remembered for all time.

He blew cigar smoke into the four corners of his simple, but tastefully furnished office, then looked up from his desk at Mark. “There’s a few things I absolutely require,” he said tersely. “Punctuality in reporting for your run, economic handling of my planes and the safety of passengers, first, last and always. And there must be fast time made this coming month. Arty’s probably told you the necessity of that. If we’re fortunate enough to get the mail contract, we’ll talk about that phase when the time comes. At present I’m only concerned about you giving the service and showing the merit that your last employers assured my son that you had.”

“Oh, I’ll do that, sir,” Mark said, smiling. “I’m terribly anxious to make a record myself. You see my father has never been keen about me choosing a career in the air and I’d like to convince him that I can do what I set out to do.”

“Hmph, very well. That’s about all then, Gilmore. You’ll report to Arty tomorrow night and get your orders. Eight o’clock, prompt. Hereafter all your orders you’ll get from my son. He’s timekeeper—starting from the bottom up. Downstairs office. Goodnight!”

Mark found himself a moment later in Arty’s office downstairs, thinking how prosaic after all the whole thing seemed. He felt like laughing at the day-dreaming he had done through the previous afternoon. With what enthusiasm he had looked forward to Dawson City! With what secret pride had he thought of being chief pilot of an airline like Inter-Mountain! Somehow the name had thrilled him and had conjured up a hint of adventure. But now that he was here the very thought of adventure was impossible. His interview with the senior Aylesworth had dispelled it all in a second. His great chance had proved to be nothing more than a mundane business proposition.

He confessed this to Arty, frankly. “You see, it’s the first time that I was ever west of Chi. I won’t say I’m disappointed—it’s a good job, I suppose.”

Arty grinned understandingly. “I get it all right, Red. You’ve known right along that the old wild west was moss eaten twenty-five years ago and more, still you like to think that it isn’t. You’re kind of hoping that a little spice lurks around, huh? Well, Red, I hate to disappoint you, but there ain’t no such animal. I’ve lived in Dawson ever since I was born and nothing exciting’s ever happened that I can remember. Gol darn, I’m not even allowed to fly because I had three crackups when I was still a stude. So cheer up, you’re lucky alongside of me. All the thrills I get is sitting in this pokey office keeping time and listening to complaints. Well, such is life. You’ll need a room, did you think of that?”

Mark had not but it seemed that Arty had. He knew just the place not a quarter of a mile from the airport. A nice, quiet well kept home owned by a sweet-motherly person, Mrs. Jenkins. Another pilot of Inter-Mountain’s on the Helena run had a room there and liked it.

“She’s got a dandy room, I happen to know,” said Arty efficiently. “Southern exposure with bath. Just the thing for you. No, she won’t mind being called out of bed at this hour. Not when it’s me calling. Known her since I was a kid. Well, Red, you must be sleepy. I’ll run you up there in my roadster. It’s on my way, so don’t worry.”

Mark felt not a little dazed as he followed Arty into his roadster. The glamour, if there had ever been any at all, was gone. Even the moon, in its last quarter, seemed feeble and dull and a significant haze surrounded it.

“Looks like we’ll be having some weather between now and the next moon change,” Arty observed. “We’re due for it. Have some pretty bad snow storms out here this time of year while you eastern folks are going around without overcoats.”

Mark nodded politely. “What do you do out here for excitement, Art?” he asked suddenly.

Arty started the car, swung it out to a wide highway and mounted a hill in high gear. “We can go to Denver on your time off, Red,” he answered at length. “Plenty doing there. The most that one can do in Dawson is the movies and I guess you get enough of that home.”

“And how!”

Mark got his first lung full of Colorado air then and expanded. He thrilled to its exhilarating effect and pulled his coat collar close about his neck. He looked behind, down to the airport, and saw that it was on the lowest level of Dawson City. The rest of the town seemed to be snuggling against the base of the Rockies for protection from the elements. Mark grinned at the thought for on closer inspection the gigantic outline of the mountains did not bespeak protection. Rather, it looked formidable as it rose away from the foothills and like some grinning, evil monster slunk into the obscurity of distance and night.

“Now Denver’s swell,” Arty was saying. “We’re almost there.... I mean Mrs. Jenkins’ house. Of course, no place is as nice as New York, as cities go. More to do. I realized that yesterday even if it was my first visit. I’ll be keen to go again and stay a week at least the next time, when dad won’t be in a rush for a good pilot. Well, here we are.”

Mark looked up at the darkened house. A pretty little place painted white with green trim. Vines and a garden and a good lawn. Not unlike his own comfortable house back in Kent’s Falls, New York. Nothing much to distinguish the one from the other except that Mrs. Jenkins’ back yard was a foothill of the Rockies. Outside of that, east was west and west was east.

Arty rang the front door bell and after a hushed silence, a sleepy voice called out questioningly. A moment later, Mrs. Jenkins opened the door, arrayed in bathrobe and white muslin cap, and considering the hour she was gracious indeed. A lady long past middle age, she seemed heaven-sent to watch over and minister to the needs of a temperamental, adventure-loving pilot like Mark.

Mark liked her and was delighted with the room. More, he was inspired with a thought at sight of neatly made up twin beds. “It’s a shame to have two when I can only occupy one,” he said, smiling.

“It’s such a large room and I have sometimes been able to rent it to two gentlemen,” Mrs. Jenkins explained.

“Great,” said Mark. “You can rent it to two now. I’ve a friend, a neat quiet fellow who’s not so kindly disposed to the world at large, but quiet just the same.”

“Benson?” Arty asked with evident astonishment.

“Sure. What more natural thing for two fellows—life-long acquaintances and all that sort of thing—to bunk together. Why should it make any difference if we are working for rival companies, huh? Richie isn’t as bad-natured as you saw him tonight. He’s got his human moments. Yes, I think he’d like it here as much as he’s capable of liking anything. Got a phone, Mrs. Jenkins? I’ll call and tell him.”

“Make yourself at home, my boy,” said Mrs. Jenkins sweetly. “The phone’s downstairs in the front hall. I’ll get you a key and then get back to bed. Oh, don’t apologize. I’m used to you pilots coming in and out at all hours. Besides, I’m always glad to have a tenant that Arty Aylesworth recommends.”

When she had left the room, Arty turned to Mark. “’Spose you know what you’re doing, Red,” he said skeptically. “I’m just a bit foggy about Benson all around. He’s a queer egg. Well, I’ll be on my way. Our ranch is ten miles out and I’m doggone tired.” He went to the door and hesitated a moment: “Don’t let yourself get low because things seem so tame around here, Red. I’ll see what I can think of to whoop things up a bit. Maybe something will turn up anyway.”

“I hope so,” Mark said vehemently. “Nothing I’d like better.” He laughed.

And the gods laughed also, for they were even then preparing to take him at his word. The grim shadow of the mountains which he could see from his windows seemed to be beckoning him on as if they alone knew the secret.