The girl raised her eyebrows, and muttered a feeble, “All right.”
Meanwhile, Dot ran over to the road to see whether there wasn’t a car somewhere in sight. But there was neither a car nor a house. It was a barren stretch of country—she didn’t know where.
It was a lonely place indeed for a poor helpless girl to have such a dreadful accident, through no fault of hers. But now that she was conscious, surely she could tell them where the nearest town was, so they could take her to a hospital.
Linda, too, was realizing that they could not hope for a machine to come along, that they would have to take the girl with them in the “Ladybug.” She was just about to ask her who she was, and where she came from, when she was startled by the very question from the girl herself.
“Please tell me who I am, pretty lady,” she said, pathetically. “I can’t seem to remember anything.”
Linda gasped.
“I don’t know. My friend saw the accident from the air—from our autogiro, while we were flying. You were walking along the road, and a car swerved at you going eighty miles an hour. I think the driver was crazy, or drunk, for he almost seemed to drive right at you. And he didn’t even stop.... So we landed our plane, to look after you.”
“What was I doing on the road?”
“Just walking.... Look in your sweater pockets. Maybe there’s a letter, or something.”
“You look—please. I’m so tired,” sighed the girl, and her eyes closed.