CHAPTER VII
AT TREPASSEY
Log Book:
JUNE 5,—2:45. There is a howling gale outside. The wind has blown steadily since we arrived and is getting worse now. Bill says it would be grand if we were in the air, but we can’t take off against the hill across the bay. We’d have to turn and turning would mean a slide into the water, with a heavily loaded plane and side wind.
Slim is aboard now repairing a crack in oil tank with cement and adhesive tape. It was thought first that the case would have to be taken off—an impossible job in the wind.
Everything is being done for a possible departure. The radio was cutting out yesterday but today Bill says he found the trouble in a loose connection.
We are lodged in one of the mansions of the town.
It is difficult to raise anything here but “badadoes,” “tornips” and cabbage. Each family has a garden, a few sheep and usually a cow.
The stove here is a three-decker, with the oven on top. Heavy iron kettles and pots are used for cooking. Tea and coffee only are known. Houses are clean and fences white-washed.
I could enjoy myself were it not for anxiety about a take-off today, and the disgusting news of publicity. Every few minutes a telegraph operator patters over and hands me a telegram from some one. Some are lovely, and others disturb me greatly. The latest says B. papers carry a story I went to recoup fallen fortunes of family.
A photographer is on the way. The train has just pulled in—it comes twice a week, and the town watches to see who gets off.