The next log book entry emphasizes our isolation. The only newspapers we’d seen had been a stray batch from Boston, describing the take-off. By then that seemed in the dark ages. So far as we knew we were comfortably forgotten by the world. Echoes only came to us in personal messages, and at that time it was impossible to realize that any general interest remained.
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Log Book:
Apparently from the telegrams to me today our troubles are painted heavily for they all say—“stick to it,” “we’re for you,” etc. One inventor has written he will install his invention gratuitously and guarantee we can get off with maximum load. Our efficiency will be increased 35% etc. It will take only a month to get the apparatus here, and twelve hours to install. We all wish we had a dozen with us.
I saw an interesting stunt. There are wells here and all water has to be carried to the houses. A little girl—a really little girl—put two buckets of H2O on a stick and then separated the buckets by a barrel hoop and stepped inside. Thus she could carry the two without having them hit her legs.
The evening of the 15th day. We have had a musical evening again tonight. The old harp was bro’t forth and Bill and Andy played. It is very funny to see two able-bodied men picking out “Jingle Bells.” Two are required for the feat and I am terribly amused. Bill has a good deal of music in him and knows some Spanish stuff of which I am very fond.
Today has been happier as a whole. We all appeared this morning vowing to change clothes and clean up. I bought a 90c green checked Mother Hubbard, the best in stock and a pair of tan hose. With borrowed shoes, skirt and slip, I pitched in and washed everything else. Bill borrowed trousers, and had his suit cleaned and pressed and his shirts laundered. He purchased a new tie as the one he had was fast “going to the devil” and some Trepassey socks. Slim also is spic and span. All we need are baths, manicures and haircuts—none of which are obtainable here.
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In those last days at Trepassey, one bit of news that did filter in from the outside world cheered us mightily. That was word of the successful flight of the Southern Cross from San Francisco across the Pacific. She was a tri-motor Fokker, engined with Wright Whirlwind motors, practically identical with the Friendship except that she was not equipped with pontoons.
They made it; so could we. Their accomplishment was a challenge.