She rummaged about on a shelf, found a comb and with dexterous fingers smoothed her short damp hair into place, then with a sigh of satisfaction, muttered again to herself, "Much better, my girl."
Her makeshift toilet completed, she decided to leave the cabin and continue her explorations outside.
There were two doors, one on the side and one at the end which evidently led forward. After a moment's hesitation, Dorothy chose the latter. With some difficulty, for the ship still pitched unmercifully, she stumbled forward. Then, summoning up her courage, for she was not without trepidation at the thought of facing her desperado rescuers, she laid a hand on the knob and turning it, swung back the door.
Dorothy found herself in a small, glassed-in compartment, evidently the pilot house. She had hardly time to glance about, when an oddly familiar voice spoke from out the darkness. It was barely distinguishable above the motor's hum.
"Please, Miss Dixon, snap off the light or shut the door. I can't possibly guide this craft in such a glare."
"Why, it's Bill Bol--Mr. Bolton, I mean," she cried in surprise, and closed the door.
"Himself in the flesh," replied that young man.
She could see him clearly now, seated directly before her. His back was toward her and he did not turn round. So far as she could see he seemed very busily engaged, doing something with his feet.
"Then--then it must have been you who picked me up," she stammered.
"Guilty on the first count, Miss Dixon."