"Of course."
Linda showed her the picture. It was indeed a queer looking object, with its wind-mill-like arrangement on top, and its absence of big wings. As the reporter had observed, its appearance was very like a huge bug.
"They do say it's unusually safe," corroborated the latter. "You'll have to take a ride in it, Miss Carlton."
"Not I!" protested the older woman. "Firm earth is good enough for me.... No, it looks dangerous enough to me."
Linda smiled; she could never convince her aunt of the joy of flying, or of the minimum risk, if one were a careful pilot. She was glad that her father was more broad-minded; if he weren't, she would still be on the ground.
"And where will you go with your Flying Bug, Miss Carlton?" asked the reporter, tapping her pencil on her note-book.
"Not on any long flight," replied the girl, to her aunt's relief. "My aim is to get some sort of aviation job."
"What would you like to do?"
"Anything connected with planes. I prefer flying, but I'd be satisfied at the beginning with ground work.... If you will write down your telephone number, Miss Hawkins, I will call you up when I have decided definitely just what my plans will be."
"Thank you very much!" exclaimed the other girl, rising. "I think you are a peach, Miss Carlton. Some celebrities are so mean to us reporters."