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diff --git a/79062-0.txt b/79062-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..4723486 --- /dev/null +++ b/79062-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,391 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 79062 *** +[Illustration: Wherein the rivalry of Happy Hennessy and the +parachute-jumper for the favor of fair Mary starts new excitement at a +rough-riding air circus.] + + + RIDE ’EM AND WEEP + + by Raoul Fauconnier Whitfield + + +It wasn’t that this red-headed bird didn’t know ships. He did. In the +first place he had those goggle-cuts around the eyes—and I figured from +the first second my baby-blue eyes glimpsed his fire-top, that he’d +crashed them far and wide. Bert Billings, who runs the “Billings Air +Circus,” looks up from a pile of high-test gas bills, and greets the new +arrival cheerfully. + +“I’m betting you’re Happy Hennessy,” he says. “—Sometimes known as Red. +An’ you’re down in Texas to tie up with the roughest ridin’ air circus +what is. Am I right?” + +This red-headed boy never blinks an eyelash. He’s tall and thin, and his +face is a perfect brown. + +“What is, _right now_,” he says slowly. “But not what _was_. I just come +from an outfit, man, where we landed the crates upside down, an’ did +outside loops to cool our toes off. Out in California we used to zoom +’em with the engine throttled down just to get a kick out of it. I can +remember the time that—” + +Bert interrupts with a chuckle. “That you fell out of a loop into two +airholes an’ a dozen left-handed cotter-pins. Happy, you’ve come to the +right outfit this time. + +“Where that bunch you left stopped—that’s where we _start_ down here! +Tell him, Gus!” + +“Happy,” I says, innocent-like, “the boss is right. I can tell by your +face that you’ve set ’em down fast and furious, an’ that more than a few +has nosed over on you. But you don’t know nothin’ yet, Red. We always +land cross-wind down here—an’ the boss has a set rule that we gotta +side-slip to within six inches of the ground. We got a master mechanic +who hates engines to hit smooth-like; and the boss gives a grand prize +for the guy that takes a ship off with the most cylinders missing—” + +“That,” this red-headed bird interrupts, “aint nothin’. Out in +California we flew ’em without usin’ the controls unless we was in a +sixty-mile gale, an’ we never—” + +And right there the boss got sore. Bert’s like that. He can stand just +so much—and no more. I guess he had visions of a two-months’ no-crash +record being shot to pieces. The Billings outfit was sane and +safety-first, and this red-headed bird had the boss wind up from the +start, even if Bert did try a bluff. + +“Happy,” he says slowly, “you got a sweet rep back of you. Since Jake +‘went West’ last week we’ve been short-handed. But none of the boys has +even strained a landing gear in the last month—not countin’ the +tail-spin that Jake neglected to come out of—an’ we don’t want no +epidemic brought along by you. Am I getting across?” + +Well, this lean bird looks serious-like for several seconds, an’ then +just grins. + +“Boss,” he says slowly, “I got right sick of them excitin’ times in +California. An’ I like the Texas scenery. I’m a safety-first pilot, an’ +I really handle a stick as careful as a maiden-lady handles an +honest-to-God marriage opportunity.” + +The boss stared, and then nodded his head. But this red-topped bird +didn’t fool _me_ none. I’d seen ’em like that before. It takes a +neck-crackin’ crash to cure the wild ones, and then the only kind of +flyin’ they do is with harps. + +“Apple soup!” I mutters (very much to myself) and clears out of the +office to put the rest of the gang wise to what’s with us. It looks like +things aint going to be so quietlike—with Happy on the payroll. + +We sure had a queer-lookin’ bunch of ships out in the canvas hangars. +They were rambling wrecks with wings on, but the boys handled them +gentle-like, and the boss kept them out of the rain as much as business +allowed. There was two D.H.’s, a couple of ancient Curtiss two-seaters, +one Nieuport and a few mixed breeds. We was doing sky-writing, +plane-to-plane jumpin’, wing-stuff, and the ordinary variety of stunting +and passenger joy-hopping. In them days there was coin in the game. +There is yet—for a few. + +Well, I made it my business to be among them present when Happy Hennessy +gives the ships the two-eye. An’ it sure was worth it. + +The red-headed one looked with his eyes and felt with his long +fingers—an’ rambled off a past history of each plane that was so close +to the mark that it was scary-like. An’ finally, with Pack Kennedy right +behind him, he reaches the Curtiss two-seater with “Mary” painted in +big, black letters on her fuselage sides. I seen trouble comin’ +then—with that slow grin spreadin’ on Happy’s face. + +“Now aint that sweet!” he says in that drawl of his. “Whose particular +little pet is _she_?” + +Pack Kennedy scowls. Kennedy gets his leadin’ name because of the fact +that he’s our “chute” man. Seventy-two parachute drops in three +months—an’ not even a twisted ankle! Not so bad, I figures, and it looks +as if Happy has picked the wrong bird this time. + +“She’s my hop-off ship,” Pack says, calm-like—but I knows he’s boilin’ +inside. “Gus here—he flies her. Got any kick?” + +The red-headed one just grins all the more. He winks at me. + +“I’ll bet your girl christened her with a bottle of vi-o-let perfume,” +he says, lookin’ at Pack again. “Where I come from they numbers their +ships—don’t name ’em pretty-like.” + +“If you like that system,” shoots back Kennedy, “why the hell don’t you +go back to where you came from?” + +Which, I figures, was straight to the point. But this Happy Hennessy +wasn’t gettin’ the least bit flustered. Nothin’ like that. Instead he +just grins at Pack. + +“Maybe,” he says casual-like, “I can teach you guys a few new tricks. +Mind if I take _Mary_ up for a loop or two—or is she just for you, +private-like?” + +Pack’s face is kinda white. You see, Happy aint wise to the fact that +Pack’s crazy over this kid Mary. She’s a looker, and it aint no secret +that Pack and she is figurin’ on gettin’ hooked up before the outfit +clears Texas. + +“Mister,” says our star jumper, “I been readin’ about you in some old +papers. You seem to be some wild sky-stunter. An’ maybe you are. The +boss here lets any pilot on the payroll take any ship up above. That’s +his business method. That includes—” Pack kinda swallows hard—“this +two-seater, here. Take her up, Mister. Personally, I hope she bounces +you out into plenty of non-supportin’ air! I don’t like you, Mister. You +strike me like a fresh guy. There’s the ships.” Pack gestured with both +sun-browned hands. “An’ all I gotta say is ride ’em an’ weep!” + +Which I figured was a pretty good-sized mouthful. But Happy didn’t seem +to figure things that way. + +“Roll this sweet-named one out!” he instructs the ground crew. “I aim to +see if she’s got what them opery guys call temper’ment.” + +Right then and there we all knew that Bert’s outfit was too small to +hold both Pack and Happy. And when we seen what the red-headed one did +to _Mary_, while Pack stood near the hangars and muttered to himself, we +commenced makin’ little bets with ourselves as to the exact length of +time required before the two boys would tangle. + +Stunts? Say, the lanky one from California put the two-seater through +every trick a ship can do, and keep her wings—and a few others, too. He +pulled a pretty falling leaf coming down, went into a vertical slip at +five hundred feet, and held her in it until I closed my eyes. When I +opened them she was landing sweet and pretty. + +And while the ground crew’s getting the two-seater in her hangar again +Happy strolls over to where Pack is tryin’ to calm his nerves with a +cigarette. + +“She aint bad,” Happy says, calm-like. “Considerin’ the name you tacked +on her she aint _half_ bad.” + +Pack says nothin’. For myself, I don’t think that silk-hopper _could_ +have said anythin’. He was too sore. In fact, he was even sorer than +that. He just _looks_ at Happy. I seen a killer look at a judge that had +just sentenced him to life, a few years back—an’ the look that killer +gave the judge was mild compared to the one Pack gives Happy. It was one +of those looks that means trouble with a capital T. + + * * * * * + +Mary Thomas is one of these good-lookin’ kids, slim and tall and +athletic. She drives a blue roadster out to the hangars every day or +so—an’ what I mean she _drives_ it! Pack is crazy about her, an’ she +seems crazy about Pack. At least that’s the way the crowd had things +figured. But she’s a woman—and there aint no _real_ way of figurin’ a +woman. + +She drives out the day after Happy blows in, and just by luck that bird +is up above givin’ the little ship her daily dozen. Well, the kid’s eyes +is turned high, and she spots that kind of flyin’ as somethin’ else +again. Not that the rest of us can’t fly—but Happy can and does. + +“Who is up in the sky, Gus?” Mary says to me, I bein’ the nearest to the +blue roadster. + +I grins. “That,” I says, effective-like, “is the California Comet—Happy +Hennessy. When it comes to ridin’ them high and wide he’s hotter than +the color of his hair—so _he_ says.” + +“The gentleman,” Mary observes with a certain grimness, her eyes +watching two sweet Immelmans and a barrel-roll, “has reason for such an +observation.” + +Well, that afternoon I was slated to take off the two-seater, with Pack +as the hopper-off, at some sort of a convention holdin’ out in the +ball-park on the outskirts of Dallas. An’ I was busy prayin’ that Happy +didn’t crack her up. She’s a good ship, patches an’ all. + +Happy gets her down pretty, an’ the first thing I know Tex Connell is +introducin’ him to Pack’s girl. Aint that sweet? An’ the answer is—it +aint! Pack’s in town buyin’ a gross of his favorite chewin’ gum, an’ he +don’t see the eyes the two of them make at each other. But I see—an’ I +know right then that Mary Thomas aint slated to help things along none. + +I been wrong a few times in my life—but not this time. Pack is in a bad +humor—and he makes a rotten jump at the Dallas convention. He gives me a +scare as I circle around him on his way down. Pack can guide a ’chute +when he wants to—but this afternoon he don’t even hit the convention +field. He misses the ball-park—and lands twenty feet from the +right-of-way of the Texas and Southern Railroad, with a train roaring +along. An’ he gets a badly sprained ankle out of it. + +That’s where Happy comes in. The first thing I know _he’s_ doin’ the +jump stuff for the “Billings Air Circus”—and he’s doin’ it good, too. +Pack’s just grouchin’ along. And the girl’s smilin’ at both of them. + +“Pretty quick now,” says Tex Connell,—who’s been tied up to a woman +twice, an’ should know,—“there’s goin’ to be a smash.” + +I nods at the time. But the smash comes sooner than I figures, and from +a different direction. I sets a D.H. down a bit fast, a week before +we’re slated to clear out of Dallas, an’ she blows a tire an’ noses over +on me. I’m slow gettin’ my head away from the cowl—an’ when I come back +to things Bert is tellin’ the boys that I’ll have to rest up a bit. Then +he pulls it. + +“Pack’s ankle is all right now,” he says easy-like. “The way I figure +things, an’ with us short-handed, Happy’ll fly the Curtiss hop-off +ship—an’ Pack can make the last jump in this here vicinity.” + +I groans at that, but the boss thinks it’s on account of my head. An’ it +aint up to me to say nothin’. Happy flyin’ the two-seater—an’ Pack +making the leap! The two of them together—up there where there aint no +traffic cops to butt in! + +“Ride ’em—an’ weep!” I mutters to myself, but Bert hears me. + +“He’s off his nut,” he tells the gang. + +“An’ I thought he had a hard head, before he got this bump!” + +The boss is sympathetic like that. + + * * * * * + +Pack an’ Happy wasn’t speakin’ when they climbed into the two-seater to +get into the air for the final hop-off. Dallas was celebratin’ Old Home +Week, or one of them things that cities like to celebrate to take the +citizens’ minds off taxes for a day or so. + +“Take it easy,” I advises, but knowin’ that neither of ’em will pay any +attention to me. “We’ve been havin’ a few unhappy landings around the +outfit, an’ a change of atmosphere will do us all good. An’ if you +guys—” + +“Tell Mary,” says Happy in that loud voice of his, “that I’ll take good +care of any of her boy-friends that the boss sends up with me.” + +I frowns at that. Pack, fumbling with his parachute-pack, kinda hisses +between his teeth. But he says nothin’ until he was ready to climb into +the rear cockpit. + +“Too bad you aint flyin’ me, Gus,” he says then, plenty loud enough. “I +always did enjoy the stuntin’ you pulled before I got loose. Guess it’ll +be kinda mild this trip.” + +An’ Happy, in the front cockpit, tunin’ up the engine, just grins. Which +hits me hard an’ gives me the first real idea I’ve had in a couple of +years. I goes close to Happy, an’ he bends his head down. + +“Be yourself!” I mutters in his ear, above the roar of the engine. “If +you get Pack rattled on his jump I’ll—” + +“Yeah,” the red-headed one comes back, interruptin’ me, “the air sure is +quiet. Nice day for stuntin’, aint it?” + +Pack was to make his jump over the ball-park, same as he’d done several +times before. An’ the ball-park bein’ only about two miles from the +field in which we was hangin’ out, we had the day-glasses ready after +the two-seater got into the air. + +I was wonderin’ where the girl was. She always came out to the field +before Pack made a jump, but today she hadn’t shown. Lately, for that +matter, she had come out to see Happy about as much as Pack. Maybe +more—I aint up on the signs, not bein’ an expert. + +I was pretty worried—an’ I’ll admit it. Them boys up in the sky wasn’t +spillin’ over with love for each other. An’ the outfit had been gettin’ +some bad breaks lately. + +Well, at five thousand feet, almost directly over our hangars, an’ a +couple of miles from where he should have pulled a few stunts, Happy let +loose. I groaned when I seen him start. Barrels, Immelmans, loops in +succession, slips—two tight spins. And then a zoom into a stall. + +“Hell!” I heard Tex mutter, beside me. “That Curtiss can’t stand the +gaff. If he doesn’t lay off the sharp stuff pretty quick—” + + * * * * * + +Tex broke off, an’ I stiffens. The two-seater engine is missin’ badly. +Then there’s a sharp clatter—back-fire. Back-fire aint nice in the air. +Too risky. + +I hears Tex mutter again—and then, with the ship fallin’ off into a +spin, I sees the black cloud of smoke—comin’ right up off the engine. +The ship is burnin’! + +There’s no roar from the engine now. She’s dead. The nose comes down, +an’ I can see the smoke cover up both cockpits as it streams out an’ up. +Then the ship’s comin’ down, an’ I can see that this bird Happy is usin’ +his noodle. He’s tryin’ to slip her down, an’ keep the black stuff and +flames away from the cockpits. + +At three thousand I see the wing surface start to go—an’ I figures then +that the game’s up. The ship’s out of the slip an’ in a spin, with black +smoke trailin’ back of her an’ remindin’ me of the “flaming coffin” +D.H.’s of the war. + +“Pack can jump for it!” I hears Tex mutter. “Why the hell aint he over +the side by this time?” + +She’s out of the spin, plungin’ straight down now, two thousand feet off +the ground. An’ then we see it! + +Two figures close together, through a break in the smoke—both of ’em +half out of the cockpit! An’ as the black streams over them again, Tex +groans. + +“Fightin’!” he mutters. “Can you beat it? Fightin’ with the ship +fallin’—” + +The ship’s plungin’ straight down now, an’ behind her she leaves that +trail of smoke, thinner than right around her. Then, out of the smoke, +we see ’em. Two figures—two dark streaks! Tex lets out a yell. + +“They got clear!” he howls. “If the ’chutes open—” + +An’ they did just that. The two-seater crashes to earth with a dull roar +as the bunch hops into the two flivvers on the field, and drives toward +the gently falling ’chutes. I takes a good look with the glasses. Pack +is movin’ in his harness—but Happy is just danglin’ below the white silk +of his. + +“Closer to the engine!” I mutters, grim-like. “The smoke and flames got +him an’—” + +I breaks off talkin’ to myself. That thought gives me a jolt. I’m +standin’ there thinkin’—when the flivvers gets away—an’ I’m left. An’ +that’s why the kid hands me the letter, a couple of minutes later, when +he drives up in a light truck. It’s addressed to me—an’ I reads it in a +daze, wonderin’ how bad the boys is burned, an’ tryin’ to get over the +kick the whole business has handed me. An’ the letter hands me another +wallop. I read it twice—and then twice again. + +Three hours later I reads it to two boys whose faces an’ hands are +bandaged tighter than one of them hospital dummies the young docs +practise on. When I finish Pack mumbles a few words: + +“Eloped with a kiwi! Can you beat it? One of them second-louie +instructors over to Kelly Field! Well, I’ll be damned!” + +“A ground bird!” Happy mutters, with more difficulty, because of more +bandages. “I bet he never flew higher’n a kid’s kite! Aint it hell?” + + * * * * * + +An’ me, I just grins, thinkin’ of the girl throwin’ the boys over for a +ground instructor with a nice shiny uniform. An’ I’m thinkin’ of Pack +helpin’ Happy get clear of the front cockpit, stickin’ to him until they +_both_ could get out of that flamin’ mess. An’ then I’m thinkin’ of the +girl again. Safety first—for her. + +I can see Pack grinnin’ through them slits in the bandages—grinnin’ at +Happy. An’ Happy’s tryin’ to grin back. It takes a sense of humor to +sky-chase, I figures. But it’s Pack that makes me sure of that little +point. I guess he’s thinkin’ of that louie—an’ the girl. + +“Ride ’em—an’ weep!” he mutters, an’ Happy pulls somethin’ that sounds +almost like a chuckle. + + +[Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in The Blue Book Magazine, +July, 1926. It is believed to be in the public domain in the +United States; copyright status may differ in other countries.] + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 79062 *** |