Dorothy stood up. Her scarlet bathing cap flamed against the ash blue sky and her wet suit clung to her slender form like a sheath of black lacquer.
“Maybe!” Then, in quite a different tone: “Goodness, Betty, he’s missing!”
Betty sprang to her feet. “You’re crazy—” she retorted as she caught sight of Phil and Terry knifing their way back to the float. “Why’d you try to scare me? Those boys are all right.”
But Dorothy was staring skyward.
“Not the boys! I mean the plane, Betty. Over there beyond the club house. His engine’s missing. Bet you an ice cream cone he’ll have to land!”
“No, you won’t,” Betty flashed back. “I don’t know a thing about airplanes, and I’ll take your word for it. Ooh, Dorothy—do you think he’ll hit the roof?”
“Oh, he’s all right—”
“Yes, he’s over the roof now—but look!” Betty’s voice rose to a shriek. “He’s aiming the plane straight for us—it’ll hit this float—”
The last word was no more than a gurgle. Betty had dived overside.
Dorothy did not trouble to turn her head. With her bare feet firmly planted on the timbers, her straight body balanced easily to the float’s gentle rocking, she gazed interestedly at the big amphibian sweeping down toward her.