The High and the Mighty Page #4

whether it's Number 1 or Number 3,

but one of them keeps slipping out.

It's getting on my nerves.

Okay.

Skipper says,

"What's the matter with you?

"Can't you keep the props together?"

They are together.

Skipper says they're out of phase.

One and 2 are as smooth as silk.

- So are 3 and 4.

- So be it.

The boys say the props

couldn't be smoother.

Yeah?

Well, there's something haywire.

Are you all right, Mr Briscoe?

All right?

Little girl,

I'm getting along like $10 million.

Can I get you something?

Perhaps a cup of tea

would taste good to you.

- What was that?

- It's 5:
00.

- You mean it chimes?

- You heard it.

Funny thing. It happens to be

the last possession

I haven't signed over to someone else.

I wish it would chime again.

What a wonderful way

to keep track of the time.

If I had a watch like this, I couldn't wait

for the next hour to come,

and then the next one.

You know something?

I used to feel the same way.

But right now I'm in no hurry

for the hours to pass.

No, the watch is yours.

I want you to have it.

- I couldn't think of accepting it.

- Please.

A watch is the last thing

I'm going to need.

I'd like to think of it

marking the kind of hours

only a young girl can have,

exciting hours.

You'll make me very happy

if you'll accept it.

Well, if you put it that way.

I can't thank you.

I've never met anyone like you,

yet I shall remember you

for the rest of my life.

I'd rather you remember

it's only a possession

and so, not worth very much.

I will, always.

We can hear it chime together again,

it needs setting, you know.

- It's 7:
00 in San Francisco.

- Sure. I forgot.

Is it really 7:
00, little girl?

As far as this aeroplane is concerned.

Then you know something?

I don't want tea or coffee.

- A glass of water?

- Water is for bathing,

but if you can put some Scotch in it,

I'll feel cleaner.

Yes, sir.

- It's way past my cocktail time.

- Right now.

How about my friend over there?

Will you join me for a drink, mister?

Yes, thank you very much.

That's awful nice music.

We picked up four minutes, Skipper.

Looks like that wind

is finally swinging around now.

Good.

I may pass a miracle

and hit San Francisco right on time.

- Have a Lifesaver, Skipper?

- No, thanks.

Let me know, will you, when we pass

the point of no return?

Naturally.

Lydia, if you're through pouting,

maybe we could try talking things over

in a reasonable manner.

We have nothing to talk over.

Anyone who would sell

a New York advertising agency

- for a broken-down mine in Canada...

- It isn't broken.

...just to make yourself feel important,

the big operator.

Operating on my money.

I just want to get up with the feeling

that anything I accomplish that day

is due to my own efforts.

Not because my wife happened

to inherit a business.

In three years I should be able

to pay you back. Every penny.

Three years in the wilderness

and I'd be a genuine country bumpkin

with my skirts around my ankles

when they ought to be around my knees

or the other way around.

For the last time, Lydia,

I'm asking you to come with me.

I'm glad it's the last time you're going

to make that insane request

so I won't have to say no again.

I'm getting a divorce as fast as I can.

You're out of your head.

What am I supposed to do

while you clump around

in your boots and lumberjack shirt?

Have cocktails with the chipmunks?

Play bridge with the Eskimos?

Go on off to your primeval forest.

Play Daniel Boone,

get up with the pigeons or whatever

kind of birds they have up there.

Get calluses on your hands.

Be a great

dirt-under-the-fingernails boy.

Make fire by friction. Eat out of cans.

Take a bath Saturday nights

and go to an Eskimo hoedown.

Teach them to samba, for all I care.

Do just as you please

if it will make you feel like a man.

Only don't ask me to share

your juvenile adventures.

It's bad enough having to pay for them.

- Is that your last word?

- No.

I've always felt your brain

would fit nicely in a demitasse.

Hey, fella.

You got nothing but trouble, right?

- I assure you...

- I know what you're going to say,

everything with you is hunky-dory.

That's the first thing a fella

in trouble always says.

The booby hatches are full of people

that keep things to themselves,

either because they're scared

to tell them the truth,

thinking they'll make a monkey

out of themselves,

or they figure no one else can

appreciate the situation they're in.

Okay?

Well, the Good Neighbours

believe that ain't so.

- And just who...

- A club I belong to back home.

It's like the Alcoholics Anonymous.

Their luncheons are a riot.

Over the speaker's desk,

they've got a great big towel

with the letters "For Crying Out Loud"

embroidered on it.

And every member

has his own crying towel, get it?

When they bring in a bad case,

a couple of the Good Neighbours

hold the towel for the fella

so he can concentrate on weeping,

and then don't have to exert himself

in any other way.

It turns out to be a good

old-fashioned revival meeting

and the fella who has

no particular worries at the time,

he sort of feels left out of things.

And if this fella don't actually wind up

laughing at himself,

at least he feels better.

The main thing is, everybody does,

because nine times out of 10,

they think they're better off

than the other fella.

What do you sing at the end

of your meetings?

Pack Up Your Troubles

in Your Old Kit Bag?

How'd you guess?

When a fella comes in

with real trouble,

like he can't pay his income taxes,

or his wife just smashed up the car,

or his new house

shows cracks along the foundation,

they've got an organ that plays

real sad music.

It's a kick.

I can see how it might be.

Of course, a fella never comes in

with real troubles.

You know, like,

the guy's wife dying,

or his business really going broke.

They just confess little problems,

like who are they gonna get

to mow the lawn,

or will they ever break 100

on the golf course?

It's all relative, see.

You get the habit of laughing

at little problems

when they come along,

and then you don't blow your top

when the genuine,

serious things happen. Get it?

Yes, I'm beginning to follow you, Mr...

Ed Joseph. I sell furniture.

Getting back to your case,

maybe it'd make you feel better

if I cried some.

Then you'd understand

what the Good Neighbour means.

Imagine yourself with a towel.

Ready?

The wife and I scrimped

for over four years

to take a trip to Hawaii.

You know, palm trees, sunshine, sand,

things we ain't got at home.

We dreamed of the day

that we were to leave.

So, the wife persuades a woman

to take care of our children

for $10 a day,

which is more than I made

the first five years we were married.

We got all unpacked

and were really living,

but the ship don't sail.

Strike or something.

But all right, we're lucky. We get

the last two tickets on an aeroplane,

and although we can't take

all our luggage,

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