He took one hand off his hip long enough to lift the drooping wing that canted toward the south.
"Mhm-hmh--busted skid," he observed, in a tone which, to the brother of Tomaso, shaved several dollars off the coveted fifty.

Close behind Johnny he stayed, following him around the plane in a secret agony of apprehension.
Johnny, primed by the two rides he had taken--for a price--the fall before, stepped nimbly up and straddled into the pilot's seat.

He found out, by actual experimentation, what wires tilted the ailerons, which ones operated the elevators.

"Mhm-hmh--dep control here," he commented; whereupon the brother of Tomaso squirmed, thinking Johnny had discovered a fatal flaw somewhere.
With one eye still squinted against cigarette smoke that did not rise, Johnny climbed out and walked back along the fuselage to the tail.
"Mhm-hmh--I thought so!" he ejaculated, staring severely at the elevators.

"This is bad--pret-ty darn bad! They musta done a tail-slide and pancaked.