Their speed was still excessive, so for a split second or two, Dorothy leveled off and fishtailed the plane. That is, she kicked the rudder alternately right and left, thereby swinging the nose from side to side, and did so without banking and without dropping the nose to a steeper angle.
Taking the greatest possible care that her plane was in straight flight prior to the moment of contact with the ground, she gave it a brief burst of the engine, obviating any possibility of squashing on with excessive force. The airplane landed well back on the tail, rolled forward over the bumpy ground and came to a stop at the very edge of the little meadow, nose on to the line of trees and underbrush.
Dorothy switched off the ignition, snapped out of her safety belt and turned round.
“Hail, hail, the gang’s all here,” she said cheerfully. “Wake up, Betty! We’ve come to the end of the line.”
Betty opened her eyes and looked about in startled amazement.
“Why—why we didn’t crash, after all!”
“Certainly not,” snorted Dorothy. “D’you think I’d let Wispy mash up my best friend? Come on, dry your eyes. Good thing it’s so dark and none of the boys are with us. You’d be a fine sight,” she teased.
“I think Will-o-the-Wisp is a silly name for a plane.” Betty’s remark was purposely irrelevant. She wanted to change the subject.
“Then don’t think about it. Turn your mind upon the answer of that dear old song, ‘Where do we go from here?’”
“Where are we?” Betty could be practical enough when her nerves were not tried too severely.