Linda and Dot looked at each other in distress. This was a fine situation indeed. What could they say?
“My name is Linda Carlton,” the aviatrix finally announced, quietly.
“Go on! Your name’s Sallie Slocum!” insisted the young man.
“As you please,” shrugged Linda, turning to the attendant. “Nevertheless, I want this autogiro registered here as belonging to Linda Carlton, of Spring City, Ohio.”
“O. K., Miss,” agreed the attendant, making note of the fact.
Summoning a taxi, the girls stepped into it and closed the door without even so much as good-bye to the young man who had forced a conversation with them.
“What gets me,” observed Dot, “is the way reporters seem to bob up anywhere and everywhere—just when they’re not wanted.”
“True, but they have to get news, I suppose. And it was really my fault in the first place, for landing on a newspaper building. I would have to pick that out!”
“Oh, well, who cares?” returned Dot. “It’ll blow over, and be forgotten.... What hotel are we going to?”
“The Ambassador. I’ve heard so much about their ‘Cocoanut Grove’ that I want to see it.”