“Some wonderworker, isn’t she?” Dorothy contrived to look awestruck, but there was no malice in her amused tone.
“You said it—she’s a whizbang! And she told me you two came in an airplane. I’ve never met a girl aviator before. I guess she’s a second Dorothy Dixon—you must have read what the newspapers said about that girl!” He shook his head admiringly. “Betty sure has nerve!”
“She has, indeed!” Dorothy kept her face straight with an effort. “But tell me—what did you do to that crew outside?”
“Plugged ’em—clean. Got a bead on them through a front window.”
“What? You—killed them? Buckshot, at that distance?”
George chuckled. “Not buckshot—rock salt. Use it for crows, you know. It stings like the dickens.”
“I’ll bet it does!” Dorothy’s laugh was full-throated and hearty.
“What’s become of them?” she asked when she could speak.
“They beat it around the house to the garage. Do you know what happened to their car?”
“Yes. It ran away—down the lots to the bottom of the valley. And between you and me and the hatrack, I don’t think it will ever run any more.”