"Oh, my ankle! My ankle!" she moaned. And then she used worse language than any Linda had ever heard—from man or woman.
Linda was sorry for her, but she could not help contrasting this girl's cowardice in the face of physical pain with Dot Crowley's, when the latter had met with a similar accident, and had smiled bravely at the hurt. She thought, too, of Ted Mackay's courage in the hospital, and Susie suffered by the comparisons.
"Is there anything I can do?" she asked, again.
"No. Only take me to a real doctor—or a hospital."
"I'd be glad to, if your husband would let me fly my plane!"
"Well, he won't!" There followed more oaths. "What does he care—so long as he ain't the one that's hurt?" She continued to cry hysterically, until a snarling order came from without the tent.
"Shut up your noise!" bawled her husband, and Susie softened her sobbing.
Linda lay very still, thinking. Dared she suggest that the other girl deceive her husband—or would she only be punished for such an idea? She decided to give it a try.
"You must know where the men keep the gasoline," she whispered. "Wouldn't you rather have your ankle fixed right, and not run the chance of being a cripple for life?"