Sure enough—At last the big plane was spiralling downward. It landed lightly on the frozen ground and bowled across the field. The crowd surged in, but there was no sign of life, no movement about the plane. Mechanics jerked open the door, and there, side by side, grimy, worn, unkempt, were Dorothy Dixon and Bill Bolton, sleeping like children!
Somehow they were taken into the Bolton’s house and put to bed, where they continued to sleep for twelve hours, while certain anxious gentlemen waited about, impatiently demanding interviews.
The pair eventually looked up from quantities of ham and eggs in the dining room, to greet their visitors.
“Now, I want to talk business,” said the portly man who led the van. “Mr. Conway will not discuss the matter. He refers me to you—”
“Oh, you can talk to her,” said Bill. He motioned to Dorothy. “She’s run this show from start to finish.”
“And what,” asked the portly gentleman, coming at once to the point, “will you take for that motor, Miss Dixon?”
“Hmmm—A hundred hours, without refueling,” remarked Dorothy, thoughtfully buttering a slice of toast. “I hope you’ve given that some thought.”
“I have given it several thoughts. Name a price.”
“A million,” said Dorothy.
“Dollars?”