"AFRICA FLIGHT"

Wairarapa Times-Age, 13 January 1940, Page 10

"AFRICA FLIGHT"

PUBLISHED BY SPECIAL ARRANGEMENT. COPYRIGHT.

By

VAL GEILGUD.

(Author of “Announcer's Holiday,” “Beyond Dover,” Etc.

CHAPTER 111. Continued. Larrimore laughed suddenly. "I suppose you're sparing my feelings,” he said savagely, and began to pace up and down the room. "Feelings! D'you think I’ve any left?” “Listen to me, Sir George,” he said. “I tell you frankly I'm profoundly indifferent as to what happens to me after this. I may as well fly your plane from Timbuctoo to Tokyo as do anything else! But I won't do it under false pretences!” Sir George protested mildly that there was no question of any such thing. “What I mean,” persisted Larrimore. “is this; I’m taking no interest in this flight beyond the fact that you’re paying me a certain sum in cash to do a certain job of work!” “Very well,” said Sir George, “if that’s how you want it. If I were coming on the trip I should demand a modicum of good manners. As I’m not it’s immaterial to me that you should persist in being deliberately uncivil.”

He got to his feet in turn, and held out a stamped agreement across his desk.

“I want you. Mr Larrimore, to pilot my new aeroplane, 'The Star of the East, on her maiden flight from Timbuctoo to Tokyo, crossing the Sahara Desert en route. I chose you because you were the first man to fly the South Pacific solo, and also the first man to be cashiered for causing a fatal accident at an Empire Air Day display at Hendon. Is that straight enough from the shoulder for you?” Larrimore nodded; and Sir George managed to conceal a smile. At which moment Miss Wright opened the door to admit Professor Hubert Manson.

Sir George’s brother was a man of perhaps fifty, excessively tall, inclining to baldness, round-shouldered and spectacled. He peered absently about him, as if not very sure of why he had come.

“I’m sorry if I'm late, George," he said apologetically, but Janet refused to let me come out in odd socks. She’s fussy about the most curious things.” Sir George noddedd, introduced Larrimore abruptly, and began to unroll a map which he took from one of tne drawers of his desk..

The Professor gave a hand to Larrimore, and looked at him with inoffensive naive curiosity.

“Larrimore,” he • repeated, and scratched his jaw. “I seem to know the name. Have I met you before?” “Possibly in print,” retorted Larrimore sardonically. “Ah yes,” said Hubert Manson. “1 think I recall an article in the ‘British Medical Journal.’ ”

“Hardly that,” grinned Larrimore, “But I’m delighted to meet you.”

Sir George looked at the quaintly assorted pair, and all at once became oppressively the practical man of affairs.

“Suppose we get down to brass tacks,” said he. “I just want to get the general scheme settled, and then hand over to you. I understand ‘The Star of the East’ will be ready for her trials in about ten days. By the way, I hope you like the name?” “It’ll look pretty on the headlines,” said Larrimore. “But if you’re not coming, Sir George, who is to be the Third Wise Man?”

Sir George did not rise to the pleasantry.

“What trials will you need?’ he asked brusquely. “Will you be ready to leave for Africa in three weeks?” “Surely—if the machine isn’t a dud.” “My company doesn't make dud machines—can't afford that sort of luxury.”

“I’d like,” said Larrimore, “to know the composition of the party.”

“My brother Hubert here. His wife. His secretary, Antony Sothern. His servant. One of our pilots for your relief.”

Larrimore turned to the Professor. “May I know your reason for making the trip?’ he asked. Hubert Manson smiled vaguely. “I want to take photographs from the air of Sahara caravan routes,’ he said.

“And for (hat your wife’s presence is essential?”

The Professor looked puzzled for a moment, then he smiled again. “I'm afraid it is, Mr Larrimore. You know I find it hard to do anything at all without her. The study of science is apt to make one a trifle oblivious of the minor details of living.” “Then why take a secretary?” “My dear Larrimore,” Sir George interrupted impatiently, "My sister-in-law wants to make this trip, and when she wants anything it saves a great deal of (rouble all round to let her do it." "I just wanted to know,” Larrimore picked up the map, and jerked an expressive finger across the expanse of the Sahara. "You realise of course that there is a considerable risk involved?” “Risk?” repeated Hubert, “You mean —we might come to grief?" “We might crash," said Larrimore deliberately, “or we might come down in the middle of the desert.”

“Oh quite. But that would only increase the interest from my point of view. There are considerable tracts of the Sahara which still remain completely unexplored.”

To which Larrimore could only reply with a helpless shrug of the shoulders. None of his own lunacies had been as wild as this . . .

And suddenly he had what he desscribed not long after as “a rush of commonsense to the head." His alti-

tude of not earing a hoot what might

happen to him was in part perfectly genuine. But it was also partly an effective pose, as Rupert Larrimore in his heart knew perfectly well. And there was a basic professional honesty in Larrimore which prevented him from sacrificing a job of work on the altar of'his own vanity. With a great effort he pulled himself together.

“One other thing, Sir George,” he said. “Who is to run this expedition?”

Sir George looked a trifle uncomfortable, and exchanged glances with Hubert Manson.

. “I suppose my brother "he began a little lamely. “No!” said Larrimore decisively. “I want this perfectly clear. I think the notion of the flight is mad, the motive a despicable form of advertising, and the personnel of the expedition grotesque. But I'll take it on —and bring it off —so long as it’s clearly understood that I run the show. And that's final!”

Sir George frowned. Hubert Manson blinked amiably. “I think I should prefer the arrangement suggested by Mr Larrimore,” said the latter. "You wouldn’t object to my taking photographs from the plane, Mr Larrimore?" "Bring a battery of film-cameras, if you like, Professor!” There was a knock at the door, and Miss Wright put her head round it’s corner.

“I’m sorry to interrupt you, Sir George, but your daughter is here —” She was given no opportunity to complete the sentence by Carol Manson, who pushed past the secretary, walked straight up to her father, kissed him, and sat down on the corner of his big desk, swinging a pair of extremely pretty legs, and powdering her nose without the slightest suspicion of self-consciousness.

For the moment nobody spoke. Hubert Manson patted his niece’s shoulder. Sir George looked disapproving, and Larrimore merely irritated.

“Well," said Carol, “you all look very solemn. Am I in the way?”

Larrimore ignored her absolutely. "I think, Sir George, that if you’ll give me a preliminary cheque. I’ll be on my way. I’ve a good deal to do in not very much time.” Sir George scribbled the cheque. As he handed it to Larrimore, Carol put her powder-compact in her bag, and looked up. “I think, Daddy,” she said, “that I should rather like to be introduced.” CHAPTER IV.

“I don’t think you’ve met my daughter Carol before. Larrimore.” said Sir George. He spoke abstractedly, being apparently altogether engaged in screwing up the cap of his fountain-pen. He certain did not notice the singular likeness to his own first meeting with Rupert Larrimore in the way in which his daughter now faced the airman’s sardonic eyes. As for Carol herself she was profoundly careless of the presence of her father’ and her uncle. She jumped off the desk, went close up to Larrimore and held out her hand.

“Would you mind,” she begun a little breathlessly, “if I told you that I thought you’d had rotten bad luck?” “Thank you.” said Larrimore. “though, as a matter of fact, it was all perfectly fair," Saying which he was amazed at his own civility. He had known a little of Carol Manson by repute, and had not liked that little. He had resented acutely the blatant way in which she had thrust herself into her father’s office for the sake of an introduction to himself. And together with the report of his own court martial he had read a story in a morning paper which had not tended to improve his opinion of the girl . . . And yet—though quite determined to be rude to her—he had accepted her sympathy, and taken her hand. Was he going soft? He looked at her again uneasily, and found her eyes fixed unwinkingly upon his. And in that instant he knew that unmistakeable sensation, partly a physical shock, partly an overmastering mental conviction, that "he had bought it.” And, oddly enough, Rupert Larrimore had never bought it before. Women had made a fuss of him, cheered him, even made love to him. The sheer cussedness which was such a large part of his make-up had driven him to live almost like an anchorite. And now this slim-flanked girl, with the clear, rather scornful grey eyes and fair hair, had taken his heart from him with a single glance and in the face of most of his pet prejudices! He swore soundlessly to himself, and found that he was thanking Sir George for his cheque at needless length.

"You'll let me know where the trials of the machine are to be held?" he concluded lamely.

Sir George stooped to thrust his cheque-book back into the drawer. "Hendon I expect,” he answered, without looking up.

There was a tiny breathless silence. "Hendon!" gasped Carol suddenly. "Daddy! You can’t mean Mr Larrimore to fly at Hendon " . "Why not, Miss Manson?" interrupted Larrimore curtly. He made a little bow, and walked out quickly. Carol turned on her father.

"Daddy didn't you remember that his crash was at Hendon?" she demanded accusingly. “I wish that you'd mind your own business, Carol." "Which is a nice morning greeting to your only daughter!" “You know I was busy this morning. I've told you dozens of times I don't want you in the office. Can’t you use the telephone?" (To be Continued.)