The Thunder Bird | Page 6

self-pity welled up into his pale blue eyes. He turned
away and stared across the barren calf lot that Johnny used for a flying
field.
Johnny began to have premonitory qualms of a sympathy which he
knew was undeserved. Bland Halliday had got a square deal--more than
a square deal; for Sudden, Johnny knew, had paid him generously for

repairing the plane while Johnny was sick. Bland had undoubtedly
squandered the money in one long debauch, and there was no doubt in
Johnny's mind of Bland's reason for missing his train. He was a bum by
nature and he would double-cross his own mother, Johnny firmly
believed. Yet, there was Johnny's boyish sympathy that never failed
sundry stray dogs and cats that came in his way. It impelled him now to
befriend Bland Halliday.
"Well, since the cat's come back, I suppose it must have its saucer of
milk," he grinned, by way of hiding the fact that the lip-quiver had
touched him. "I haven't taken any nourishment myself for quite some
time. Come on and eat."
He started back toward town, and Bland Halliday followed him like a
lonesome pup.
On the way, Johnny took stock of Bland in little quick glances from the
corner of his eyes. Bland had been shabby when Johnny discovered
him one day on the depot platform of a tiny town farther down the line.
He had been shabbier after three weeks in Johnny's camp, working on
the airplane in hope of a free trip to the Coast. But his shabbiness now
surpassed anything Johnny had known, because Bland had evidently
made pitiful attempts to hide it. That, Johnny guessed, was because of
the hussy Bland had mentioned.
Bland's shoes were worn through on the sides, and he had blackened
his ragged socks to hide the holes. Somewhere he had got a blue serge
coat, from which the lining sagged in frayed wrinkles. His pockets were
torn down at the corners; buttons were gone, grease spots and beer
stains patterned the cloth. Under the coat he wore a pink-and-white silk
shirt, much soiled and with the neck frankly open, imitating sport style
because of missing buttons. He looked what he was by nature; what he
was by training,--a really skilful birdman,--did not show at all.
He begged a smoke from Johnny and slouched along, with an aimless
garrulity talking of his hard luck, now curiously shot with hope. Which
irritated Johnny vaguely, since instinct told him whence that hope had
sprung. Still, sympathy made him kind to Bland just because Bland was

so worthless and so miserable.
At a dingy, fly-infested place called "Red's Quick Lunch" whither
Johnny, mindful of his low finances, piloted him, Bland ordered largely
and complained because his "T bone" was too rare, and afterwards
because it was tough. Johnny dined on "coffee and sinkers" so that he
could afford Bland's steak and "French fried" and hot biscuits and pie
and two cups of coffee. The cat, he told himself grimly, was not content
with a saucer of milk. It was on the top shelf of the pantry, lapping all
the cream off the pan!
Afterwards he took Bland to the hotel where his room was paid for
until the end of the week, led him up there, produced an old suit of
clothes that had not seemed to wear a sufficiently prosperous air for the
owner of an airplane, and suggestively opened the door to the
bathroom.
Bland took the clothes and went in, mumbling a fear that he would do
himself mortal injury if he took a bath right after a meal.
"If you die, you'll die clean, anyway," Johnny told him grimly. So
Bland took a bath and emerged looking almost respectable.
Johnny had brought his second-best shoes out, and Bland put them on,
pursing his loose lips because the shoes were a size too small. But
Johnny had thrown Bland's shoes out of the window, so Bland had to
bear the pinching.
Johnny sat on the edge of the dresser smoking and fanning the smoke
away from his round, meditative eyes while he looked Bland over.
Bland caught the look, and in spite of the shoes he grinned amiably.
"I take it back, bo, what I said about gratitude. You got it, after all."
"Huh!" Johnny grunted. "Gratitude, huh?"
"I knowed you wouldn't throw down a friend, old top. I was in the
dumps. A feller'll talk most any way when he's feeling the after effects,

and is hungry and broke. Now I'm my own man again. What next?
Name it, bo--I'm game."
"Next," said Johnny, "is bed, I guess. You're clean, now--you can sleep
here."
Bland showed that he could feel the sentiment called compunction.
"Much obliged, bo--but I don't want to crowd you--"
"You won't crowd me,"