“Remember, Russ,”--my voice was almost persuasive,--“she’s a woman.” Russ sighed heavily. But when he spoke his tone was hard. “Ain’t it the truth!” he stated. * * * * * It was about ten minutes of four, and there was a pretty fair crowd on the field which we were using for the outfit. The Old Lady was on the deadline, and I had the DeHaviland that I was going to pilot alongside of her. The camera-ship had flown up from Los Angeles, and was a racily-lined two-seater. She was resting on the other side of the battered Jenny. Bob Brooks came along the deadline with the girl on one side and a short, good-looking chap on the other. As they neared the three ships Bob gestured toward them. Russ was fooling around with his pack-’chute and watching the three at the same time. So was I. The good-looking bird halted, stared at the battered Jenny. I could see that he was taking in her patches, the slight sag of her under-carriage, the lack of varnish on her struts. With the D.H. and the camera-ship for contrast, the Old Lady looked more of a wreck than ever. Russ Healy gave his pack-’chute a final pat, and moved toward the group. I tagged along. There was a broad grin on the short fellow’s face as we came up. “That the one you go up to, Joan?” he asked, and she nodded her head. He groaned loudly. “When you get inside don’t snap the safety-belt,” he advised in a grim tone. “It’ll be easier for you to go over the side when she starts to break up under the added weight of your one hundred and fifteen pounds.” The girl laughed. It was a musical laugh, but I could see it didn’t sound that way to Russ Healy. He glared at the good-looking chap. “Meet Steve Lott, Russ.” It was Bob Brooks who spoke. “He’s piloting the shoot-ship.” Russ nodded. But he didn’t raise his right hand from his side. Lott kept right on grinning. “If we’re all set--let’s go up and get it over with,” Russ said slowly. “I don’t like the job, anyway.” Lott grunted. “Shouldn’t think you would,” he agreed. “Not flying that piece of junk!” I grabbed Russ by the right arm, and hung on. But the funny part of it was that he just sort of smiled. He stared at Lott, and then at the girl. When he spoke his words were addressed to her. “I’m kind of sorry for you,” he said slowly. “You might have picked out a _real_ man.” Lott glared at Russ, and Bob Brooks started to talk fast and give final instructions. He wanted the stuff pulled at four thousand, so that the camera would get some of the earth detail in. And he wanted every one to take their time. I saw that the girl was watching Russ a lot, and I felt kind of sorry for her. It looked to me as if she were a little scared. So just before she climbed into the rear cockpit of my D.H., I said a few words to her. “Don’t let Russ bother you,” I told her. “He was just talking yesterday. And he’s a flying fool.” She stiffened. Her chin came up a bit.