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Title: The next-to-last laugh
Author: Raoul Whitfield
Illustrator: William Molt
Release date: September 14, 2026 [eBook #79571]
Language: English
Original publication: Chicago, IL: The Consolidated Magazines Corporation, 1928
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/79571
Credits: Prepared by volunteers at BookCove (bookcove.net)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE NEXT-TO-LAST LAUGH ***
THE NEXT-TO-LAST LAUGH
By Raoul Fauconnier Whitfield
A test-pilot—the man who tries out new types of airplanes—has about
the most hazardous job known—as witness this exciting story.
Illustrated by William Mott
Funny things happen at Rook Field, and that fact isn’t so surprising.
All sorts of nuts try to put something together that will do something
in the air that has never been done before—and if the boys think that
the something has a third of a chance it’s given a try-out. MacComas has
a pretty level head, and it isn’t every inventor who can get his pet
theory into a hangar at Rook. But enough of them do to make things
interesting.
Now Eric Burnson had a duraluminum-surfaced baby plane that was supposed
to be a world-beater. After listening to what Burnson said it should do
I got the idea that it hardly needed a pilot. I didn’t say a thing. It
was Joe Curtis who spoke up.
“We had one something like this baby, a year ago,” he stated grimly.
“But I was lucky—I happened to be flying the big ones.”
Burnson was short and rather stocky. He had thin features, a high
forehead, and very peculiar eyes—he seemed to be seeing right through
things. They were gray, and the pupils appeared to be slightly dilated.
He burned right through Joe’s blue eyes, nodding his head slightly.
“Perhaps the designer of the baby plane was fortunate, too,” he stated
quietly.
Joe’s face didn’t change, but his eyes narrowed just the slightest
degree.
“He was,” he returned grimly. “He didn’t go up in his ship—and Lew
Bellows came down fourteen thousand in a loose-winged spin. We haven’t
had a tricky ship here, not one _as_ tricky, anyway—until MacComas told
us that—”
Joe stopped. Burnson smiled with tight-set lips.
“That my plane was accepted for tests, eh?” he finished. “Sorry—but
can’t you do a sneak?”
Joe flushed. “Don’t have to go that far,” he snapped. “I’ve already told
Mac that I refuse to fly it.”
That was coming back at Burnson pretty strong. I caught the faint
flicker of rage that flashed in those gray eyes; then it was gone, and
the inventor smiled coldly.
“That’s your privilege, of course,” he stated. “I’ve had the Burnson up
two thousand. But I’m not qualified to test my own ship as thoroughly as
an experienced pilot.”
* * * * *
Joe Curtis shrugged his shoulders. He looked Burnson squarely in the
eyes.
“It would be a damned good idea,” he said slowly, “if some of you
fellows learned to fly before you started inventing!”
I started to cut in, to say something that might break the tension. But
I couldn’t think of anything decent enough. And Burnson came right back.
“The creative and the mechanical mind are quite different,” he stated
coldly. “A chauffeur seldom helps to improve the automobile industry.”
And that got Joe. He’s pretty much of a fighter, anyway. I thought for a
split second that he was going to swing on Burnson. But he didn’t. He
just laughed.
It was one of those throaty, nasty laughs, packed with contempt, and I
saw Burnson stiffen. Then there was a little silence, broken by the
scraping of Joe’s chair as he shoved it back.
“I’m not laughing at _you_, Burnson,” he stated, his voice coldly
amused. “I’m laughing at that crate of yours. And it isn’t the last
laugh, either. The public will give you that. I’m giving you the
_next-to-last_ laugh!”
Then he got to his feet, swung around and strode from the Field-office
room in which the four of us had been gathered.
Burnson’s face was white, and the hand that rested on the table which
held his blueprints was clenched tightly. MacComas, the superintendent
of the testing end at Rook, was frowning. A door slammed back of the
departing Joe Curtis.
“He’s off his feed,” I suggested, after a little silence.
The Super shook his head.
“That isn’t it, Al,” he told me. “How about it, Burnson—has he any real
scrap with you?”
Burnson shook his head. “It happens that I’m not crazy about him,” he
stated directly, “but I’ve never clashed with him—until just now. Never
had much contact with him, actually.”
MacComas looked at me.
“Want to do the work on the baby Burnson, Al?” he asked.
I hesitated—but not long. It’s the practice at Rook to put it up to a
test-pilot. Sometimes ships lie around in the hangars or on the
dead-line for weeks before they get into the air. Taking off a trick
ship for the first time is a big gamble. But I had a hunch that Burnson
knew his stuff.
“I’ll feel her out—this week,” I said slowly, “if it’s all right with
Mr. Burnson.”
Eric Burnson nodded. “I’m glad to have you work on my plane,” he stated
simply. “I suggested Curtis because he’d been doing a lot of small-ship
testing. Naturally, I think he’s wrong in figuring that the Gull won’t
pass measure.”
I grinned. “It’s all in the game,” I stated. “And I don’t want to live
to be a hundred, anyway.”
MacComas grunted. “You will,” he said grimly. “Only the good die young!”
* * * * *
This Gull plane of Eric Burnson’s was supposed to revolutionize the
flying game. It was a very small single-seater, and it had been designed
to adopt most of the principles of natural bird-flight. It was supposed
to be able to get off a pocket-handkerchief field, and to land on
building roofs. A graceful little thing it was—and it looked fast.
When it hit dirt the wings ceased to support the ship—and were planned
to act as air brakes, stopping all forward motion. The elevators could
be spread fan-tailed in flight. It was tricky—there was no doubt about
that. And the trickier they are, the more dangerous they are; but if the
ship was up to snuff it would move everything along fast—in the air.
But I decided that I’d be sure and inspect my ’chute-pack before I took
the Gull off. And I also decided that I’d get altitude without rocking
the boat any more than I had to rock it. If I could get five thousand or
better it wouldn’t be so bad. I could take a chance on getting clear, at
that altitude.
I was thinking things over when I climbed the stairs of Ma Gray’s house,
four miles from the Field—we haven’t any quarters at Rook—and headed for
my room. The door was partly opened, and when I got inside I found Joe
Curtis sitting on the bed, a scowl on his face.
“A great guy, you are!” I stated. “You sure ran out of _that_ job sweet
and pretty!”
Joe swore softly. “And they grabbed you for the dirty work, I suppose!”
he muttered. “She’ll fall apart in the air, Al.”
I grinned. “I’m being paid good coin for testing ships,” I stated
slowly. “MacComas accepted this one. Somebody’s got to do the trick!”
“Well—” Joe lighted a pill—“that somebody doesn’t have to be me. And it
won’t be you!”
I stiffened. Joe and I had been pretty thick for a couple of years, but
we hadn’t reached a point where we told each other what we could and
what we couldn’t do.
“No?” I questioned. “How come, Joe?”
He just smiled. “When do you figure on getting her off the ground?” he
asked slowly.
“I haven’t started to figure yet, Joe,” I returned.
He chuckled. “The only reason I asked, Al,” he came back, “was because
that’s a mighty intelligent ship—according to Burnson. And I’ve got some
good cigars over at my room. Didn’t want to leave a window open and have
it fly in after the smokes.”
But Joe wasn’t fooling me any by using the funny stuff. So I gave it to
him straight.
“Don’t mix in on this deal, Joe!” I warned. “Mac passed the assignment
to me—and I’m testing that Burnson plane. You’ve had your laugh. Now
give Burnson a chance to have his.”
Joe Curtis flicked the ashes from his pill. His eyes were little slits.
“It might not be a laugh,” he stated. “Not for you, anyway.”
I swore softly. “You’re getting old and sentimental, Joe,” I told him.
“You do your stuff—and I’ll do mine. Just because you turned Burnson
down and I didn’t—”
“You _did_,” Joe interrupted grimly; “only you’re not wise to that fact
yet!”
* * * * *
As I mentioned before—a lot of funny things happen at Rook Field. And
some happen that aren’t so funny. The morning after I had the little
chat with Joe Curtis, MacComas called me to the Field in a hurry. I
drove out, and caught him at his desk.
“Listen to this one, Al,” the test-boss ordered, picking up a piece of
white paper from his desk. “Just came through the mail, postmarked from
the city. Typewritten and unsigned. All set?”
I nodded. Mac read in a low voice:
“Take our warning and don’t test Burnson’s Gull. It’s curtains for the
pilot who rides her in the sky. She’ll never get altitude for a jump.
MacComas, don’t be a killer!”
Mac paused, tossed the note over to me. I read it carefully. Then I
tossed it down on the desk again.
“Well?” I asked. “What about it?”
“Who sent it?” Mac asked me.
I shook my head. I thought of Joe Curtis. But Joe hadn’t had time to get
to the city, which was about fifty miles distant—not to get there and
have the letter come back in the first morning mail.
“You win!” I stated. “Some crank, I suppose. Or maybe some ship designer
who thinks Burnson might have the goods.”
MacComas grunted. “I don’t like the last line,” he stated slowly. “I’ve
never sent a man up in a ship that _he_ didn’t think was right. This
Gull is the biggest freak we’ve had here in a long time. But somehow, I
figure that Burnson—”
He stopped, and I finished it for him.
“Has the goods?” I asked.
Mac shook his head. “Not exactly that,” he stated. “But he has enough to
rate him a test. We haven’t gone forward very far—in the air. Al, how do
you feel about the Gull?”
I grinned. “I _want_ to skyride her,” I came back steadily. “I’m
curious.”
Mac nodded. “Well, I wanted you to see this note,” he said. “She’s ready
for the air, isn’t she?”
“She is,” I replied. “I’m going to have a talk with Burnson this
morning—and I’ll bounce her around the Field a bit after lunch. May not
get her up until tomorrow, though.”
The test-boss nodded. “Take your time, Al,” he stated. “And if you get
feeling funny about it—just tell me.”
I shook my head. “It’ll be all right,” I stated. “We may have a
world-beater. I’ll chase along and meet Burnson. Forget about the note,
Mac.”
He smiled, and I headed for the hangar at the south end of the Field, in
which we were keeping the Gull. There were quite a few things I wanted
to talk over with the piercing-eyed Burnson.
He was to show up at nine. But at ten there was no sign of the inventor.
At eleven I called the small hotel in which he had been putting up, a
few miles from the Field. They hadn’t seen him since the previous noon.
He wasn’t at the Field, and I knew the man well enough to be sure he’d
be on the job—with tests for his pet plane close at hand! He’d been
working two years on the Gull, and had been dreaming about it for ten.
* * * * *
I got Mac, and we drove over to the hotel. After considerable talk they
let us into his room. The bed hadn’t been slept on. Everything was in
perfect order. Burnson’s bags and extra clothing—both were in the
closet.
“Let’s get back to the Field,” Mac suggested. “If we don’t locate him
within a few hours, there’s only one thing to do.”
We didn’t locate Eric Burnson, and Mac called the police and told the
story—at about three bells. And while he was doing it, I suddenly woke
up to the fact that I hadn’t seen Joe Curtis around the Field. That
_was_ unusual. Joe loved his ships—he was always about. Not once in the
last four months had I failed to see him, unless I knew where he was. I
thought of his final words, the night before: “You _did_! Only you’re
not wise to that fact yet!” Meaning that I’d really turned Burnson down,
as he had, only I didn’t know it. And the “yet” was significant.
I shook my head slowly. “Joe wouldn’t mess up a Government deal like
this,” I muttered to myself. “He isn’t that dumb.”
But I thought of the note. It had been written by some person who knew
planes, and knew Rook. Burnson had disappeared—and Joe Curtis was not
around the Field.
When Mac had finished giving the police the little information he
possessed, I told him about Joe. It’s all right to tell Mac these
things—he understands. He shook his head.
“Looks bad,” he stated. “Joe’s gone and lost his head—that’s all. He’s
been working too hard, and I didn’t notice it. He’s sore at Burnson,
anyway. Never has liked him because he’s been so sure of that Gull
plane. And he thinks a lot of you, Al. He’s done something—”
Mac broke off abruptly, staring beyond me, toward the door of the
Field-office. I faced around—and into the room walked Joe Curtis. He was
smiling. But he didn’t say a thing. He half-turned toward the door—Eric
Burnson was following him in!
Burnson’s face was white. His eyes held an expression I couldn’t quite
fathom.
“Where in hell have you been?” Mac muttered, being the first to recover.
“We’ve got the police looking—”
“I’m all right,” Burnson interrupted in a low, steady tone. “There was
an”—he hesitated, and his eyes flickered to those of Joe Curtis, and
then went back to Mac’s again—“an accident!”
“An accident?” I stared at the inventor. “What kind?”
“It happened to a friend of mine,” Burnson stated, and managed a faint
smile. But it wasn’t a go. All three of us knew he was lying. His eyes
showed it.
Mac shrugged his shoulders. He turned toward the telephone.
“I’ll tell the police you’re here,” he stated. “Thought we’d better play
safe. There’s been some publicity about the Gull, and I figured some
crank might have had it in for you.”
Then Joe Curtis laughed. And I saw rage flash in Burnson’s deep-set
eyes. He was controlling himself with an effort, that was certain.
* * * * *
Mac made his report to the police. Joe grinned as he heard the test-boss
state that there had been an “accident.” Nothing serious, Mac explained.
Everything was all right now. He hung up, and then faced us.
“Well,” he stated, addressing the inventor, “you gave us a scare! But I
suppose the affair is your own business. Al was waiting for you to— We
want to get your ship in the air within a few days.”
“I’ve changed my mind about the Gull,” Burnson said, slowly and rather
unsteadily. “Something has come up—and I’ve changed my mind.”
That was all. There was absolute silence in the office. Mac was staring
at Burnson, but my own eyes went from the inventor’s to those of Joe
Curtis. And Joe just sat there with a grin on his lean, browned face.
Mac spoke first.
“Changed your mind?” he muttered. “What about?”
Burnson spoke more rapidly this time. Color was returning to his face,
his thin features.
“_I’ll_ fly the ship on the first hop-off,” he said quickly. “And then,
if she seems to handle well enough—I’d like to have—” He hesitated, his
eyes meeting mine momentarily—“to have Curtis carry on the remaining
test work.”
I stiffened. Joe pulled out a pack of cigarettes from his pocket.
“It’s all right with me,” he stated cheerfully. “Glad to try it, Mr.
Burnson.”
Mac frowned. I just looked at Joe through narrowed eyes. He lighted a
pill.
“If she’s right—suppose you take her up just before dusk, when the air’s
quiet,” Joe suggested to Burnson. “Then I’ll do some work tomorrow—if
she’s _still_ right.”
* * * * *
Burnson’s eyes gleamed. But he just nodded his head. Mac looked at me.
“Al had the assignment,” he commenced doubtfully, “and it seems to me
that—”
“Show them the letter you got, Mac,” I interrupted, and the test-boss
handed it to Joe. Burnson moved to his side—they read it together. I
watched Joe closely.
“Bunk!” he muttered. “I don’t think the Gull’s _that_ bad. It sounds
like a joke to me.”
Burnson was muttering something to himself. I smiled grimly at Joe.
“You ought to know!” I told Joe, and walked out of the room. When I got
outside, with the door slammed back of me, I heard Curtis laugh again.
And I was very sure, then, that he _did_ know.
But I couldn’t figure the game out. Joe Curtis had come in with Burnson.
And Joe was relieving me—and getting the test-job on the Gull. After
he’d turned it down in the first place, he was taking it now. Why? And
why, also, was Burnson letting him have it? Certainly the two men hated
each other. They couldn’t mask their feelings enough to hide that.
The more I thought of it—the more hot I got. It wasn’t that I was crazy
about testing the Gull. But I didn’t like to see Joe step in and grab
the job; not after what he’d said. And Burnson was letting him get away
with it. And so would Mac. If the inventor wanted Joe—he’d get Joe. That
was almost a creed of the Field. But _did_ Burnson want Joe?
“Not on your life!” I muttered, and pulled up short.
I’d been walking blindly along the dead-line, and I’d reached the hangar
in which the Gull was kept. And that gave me the big idea. I didn’t like
those laughs of Joe’s. They went mostly for Burnson, but they included
me, too.
“All right!” I muttered, “we’ll see who gives this baby the first test!”
And I headed for Burnson’s duraluminum-surfaced, fan-tailed Gull.
* * * * *
I had her on the dead-line, and was feeling out the controls, when I
jerked my helmeted head and saw Joe emerge from the Field-office. The
crew was back out of the way, and the engine of the little girl had
revved up all right. We were set for the take-off. I’d have to pass up
the ground-hopping, but that didn’t mean so much, anyway. I had a pet
’chute-pack strapped to me, and was sitting on it comfortably.
Joe turned his head my way—and I waved a hand. He let out a yell that I
didn’t hear because of the throttled-down exhaust rumble, and leaped off
the steps that led to the Field-office door. I saw MacComas bouncing
out—and then Burnson. And I gave her the gun.
“The next-to-last laugh for Joe,” I muttered; “the _last_ laugh for
_me!_”
She rolled. Out from the dead-line into the wind. She didn’t need much
ground on which to take-off. I got her tail up, sitting tensely in the
cockpit and saying a few of my favorite test-prayers. She skidded a bit,
and I used the rudder to straighten her out. But she wasn’t handling
right. And for once the prayers didn’t take.
We hit a ground-gust. Her nose dropped. I jerked the joy-stick back. The
nose came up—but her tail dropped. She didn’t zoom—she _did_ skid. Her
under-carriage struck; something crackled. I thought for a split second
that we were going to crack up right then.
But we didn’t. We got off—and this time we stayed off. The baby Gull
climbed—climbed up into the sky minus most of her under-carriage!
I sat tight, and held the ship in a mild climb. Testing was out of the
question now. In a ship of the Gull’s size, loss of even a portion of
the under-gear meant ragged flight. And the Gull was in the air now for
the first time.
At three thousand I tried a mild bank—and she almost got away from me
and slipped into a spin. But I managed to get her back on even keel
again. Staring down and back, I got a glimpse of ground-crew men holding
up the wreckage. As if I wasn’t fully aware of the fact that I’d
battered part of it loose!
At five thousand I got around in a bank, but the Gull’s air work was
sloppy, and she had a left wing-droop. The only thing that was
functioning right was her engine.
“Looks like a hop-over!” I muttered. “Can’t land this baby—not in this
shape!”
The Gull was supposed to land slow, and on a small field. But not
without under-carriage! I could risk a stall landing, but even then I’d
crack up pretty badly. I couldn’t see what was left below, but it was a
sure thing that not much of the two wheels and the tail-skid remained. A
’chute-jump seemed the only way out.
I got two thousand feet more altitude. It wasn’t the first time I’d been
over the side, but the conditions weren’t the best for a getaway. I’d
have to handle the Gull as long as I could, and the cockpit was so tiny
I’d have to wriggle out of it. But it had to be done.
* * * * *
About a half-mile to the north of the Field, figuring on the wind
drifting me back toward Rook, I climbed the Gull at about a
thirty-degree angle. Slipping the safety-belt, I squirmed out of the
cockpit, holding the stick as long as I could. When I released it, I had
one foot on a wing surface, and as the nose dropped down I got the other
one over. My left hand gripped a strut; the right one fumbled for the
rip-cord ring, and found it.
Then I let go. It seemed as if I missed the tail assembly by inches. I
somersaulted down, counted seven—jerked the rip-cord ring. The lead
parachute got out—and then the bigger spread crackled in the air. There
was a terrific jerking—the harness tightened about my body. And I was
drifting now—drifting beneath the ’chute toward Rook Field.
Figures were running toward me as I neared the north end of the Field.
There was a loud boom—the finish of the Gull. I wondered how Burnson
would take it. And then I flexed my legs, made ready for the
seventeen-foot-a-second contact with the earth.
I landed hard, and was out of the ’chute before it could drag me.
Feeling pretty shaky, I sat down and dug a pill out of my khaki shirt
pocket. And while I was lighting up, Joe Curtis reached me.
* * * * *
He stood looking down at me, breathless and scowling. I managed a grin.
“You damned idiot!” he muttered finally. “After all I did—”
Then he shut up. But that was enough for me. I was mighty curious.
“Spill it, Joe!” I stated. “What _did_ you do?”
“I flew in and sent that note to Mac!” he stated grimly. “And then I
cornered Burnson over in town—and made him take a drive with me, and
give me a promise or two. He didn’t want to do it—but he came through,
finally.”
I nodded. “Figured you did it, Joe,” I stated. “But _why?_ _You_ were
going to fly that ship.”
“Like hell I was!” he came back. “Not until Burnson took off first. And
I’m not so sure that he would have taken off. She was rotten underneath,
Al—and I knew it. Burnson practically admitted it—this morning, after I
stuck a gun under his face and got him out of town. He wasn’t sure, of
course. But he had to sacrifice something—to get what he wanted. And he
eased up on the under-gear. Why, you didn’t give it a hard rap, but it
ripped right off! He nearly went crazy when he saw what had happened.
Then he keeled over, fainted.”
Joe shook his head slowly. “And after all I did—trying to keep you from
breaking your neck—”
I chuckled. The other fellows were coming up now. “Guess he’ll be more
careful on the next one, Joe,” I said. “If you hadn’t been so high-hat—”
“You’d only have laughed at me!” Joe cut in. “Just because I turned it
down, you were sure I was sore because you grabbed it. And besides, it
was only a hunch. Inspection didn’t show any great weakness.”
I grinned. “I was after the last laugh, Joe,” I muttered. And then I got
to my feet. “But I guess you get the candy—with the _next-to-last_
laugh!”
Joe just grunted. “With a head like yours,” he stated sarcastically,
“you wouldn’t have needed a ’chute-pack.”
I let it go at that.
[Notes on the Text: This story appeared in _The Blue Book Magazine_,
June, 1928. It is believed to be in the public domain in the United
States; copyright status may differ in other countries.]
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