CHAPTER V
Less than five minutes after the Calleys had disappeared into the woods the clatter of an approaching automobile interrupted the reminiscent conversation of the two airmen.
It was the Mumford truck, and it carried Mumford, Gail Morgan, and five other men. One of them, he perceived, was Ballardson. Another was a doctor, who got to work on Apperson immediately.
“Gail told me all about it, Lieutenant,” said Mumford. “Of course we couldn’t let a thing like this go on—”
“Of course not!” interrupted Ballardson. The fat peace officer was ill at ease, and showed it. “I’m glad there wasn’t nothin’ to it.”
“There was something to it, but it ended all right,” Hemingwood told him, and a perverse imp in his eyes was unseen in the darkness. He narrated the night’s events briefly, and then added: “I’m sure grateful to you for sending me that note of warning!”
He was watching closely, and knew he had scored. Ballardson’s mouth opened and closed in fish-like gasps. Hemingwood turned to the other men, who were suddenly interested.
“Got an anonymous note, warning me to get out of town for safety’s sake. Just found out it was from Ballardson here. Thanks again, Officer.”
The men were silent, as though at a complete loss for words. Hemingwood knew, however, that he had put a weapon in their hands which would save both them and him any reprisal from the crooked official for the night’s work. He was aware of how slight an excuse was needed for a mountain feud, and surmised that Mumford and the other East Point men had made a real sacrifice in coming to his assistance.
The men drifted over to the ship to examine it at close range. Hemingwood gave Mumford succinct details about the note and the successful shot he had fired at Ballardson a moment before, and then joined Gail, who had been standing quietly in the background.
“Gail, we never can thank you enough, of course,” he said.
“Don’t try, then. I’ll take it for granted,” she laughed back.
She was elusively lovely in the moonlight, and Hemingwood found himself in the grip of profoundly disturbing emotions.
“Ever since I arrived you’ve been doing favors for me,” he found himself saying. And then to his own surprise, he added: “I wish you’d do me one more favor, and marry me!”
For a second her glorious eyes met his own squarely. Then she turned away quickly, and laughed.
“It might not be a favor!” she said lightly, and slipped away toward her uncle.
The truck carried Apperson back to town, but Hemingwood stayed out at the field. He did not sleep well, either. Hour after hour he examined himself, mentally, and in the end he decided that he was afraid he was in love.
The succeeding week only made him surer of it. While Apperson was convalescing he spent every possible hour with Gail, but never was the subject closest to his heart mentioned. George Arlington Hemingwood, who had never known what it was to be shy or at a loss, was totally unable to nerve himself for the ordeal of a serious proposal. Night after night he tried, only to stutter off into banal nothings.
That is, until the morning when, Apperson being recovered and the pictures all taken, they were about to take off for home. With a crowd around to watch the take-off, his helmet and goggles on his head and the motor idling along on the warm-up under Apperson’s skillful hand, he impulsively bent over and whispered his plea into her ear. She listened quietly, her hand clasped in his. They were in back of the crowd and for the moment seemed to be inhabiting a little world all their own.
“Can’t you possibly say ‘yes’?” he asked her, his eyes holding hers steadily.
“I’m sorry—but I don’t quite know yet,” she whispered. “I like you better than any man I’ve ever known.” She hesitated, and then leaned close to him and said rapidly, “I think I want to say yes—but George, I’m not sure! Perhaps this summer—”
He pressed her eagerly for a definite answer, but she shook her head. Even so, there was a song on his lips and such a leaping light in his eyes as he got in the ship that Apperson took one look at him, glanced at the flushed face of the girl, and smiled an enigmatic smile below his owl-like goggles.
Hemingwood took off, circled the field, and then obeyed an impulse to give the crowd a parting thrill. He swooped down low over the field and waved a farewell. In the forefront of the crowd he saw Gail, and she was beckoning wildly. For a moment he stared. She was signaling him down!
He landed, taxied the ship to the edge of the field, and turned it around. She appeared alongside the ’plane, her hair whipping in the propeller blast and her eyes glowing warmly. The astonished crowd looked on, wondering, as she put her lips close to his ear and said quickly:
“When I saw you leaving I found out that I was sure! Will you be back this week-end?”
George Arlington Hemingwood yelled like a Comanche Indian, and started to climb out.
“Not now—no!”
“All right! Tell all the folks, and I’ll be here Saturday if I have to build a ship!”
Thuswise she sent him away.
Not until Goddard Field was in sight did George Arlington Hemingwood, of the Hemingwoods of Boston, come out of his rose tinted trance. His face was one wide grin as he sent the ton-and-a-half bomber roaring downward in sweeping spirals and graceful wingturns.
“Just before I left I seem to remember some remarks about love and matrimony!” he reflected. “I’ll have to tell these roughnecks some time, I suppose. Won’t that boy Snapper rave! And won’t I get the razz!”
He did. It continued spasmodically long after the quarters of Mr. and Mrs. Hemingwood became a popular gathering place, but Hemingwood bore up under it wonderfully.
THE END
Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the July 10, 1924 issue of Short Stories magazine.