But a second later a woman crept smilingly from the upturned plane, and dragged a man after her. It was Madge Keen and her husband.
“Thank Heaven!” cried Linda, dashing breathlessly to their side. “You’re not hurt?”
“No, only bruised a lot,” replied Madge. “It was a wonderful escape. I guess Bert was in too much of a hurry—we were frightened of the storm. Doesn’t it look black?”
“It certainly does,” Linda admitted. “But I guess I’ll try it.”
Madge seized the other girl’s hand and pleaded with her to wait.
“It’s certain death!” she said. “You’ll never make it, Linda!”
“I thought maybe I could get above the clouds,” replied the other. “And my autogiro’s so safe, compared to ordinary planes.”
“Nothing’s safe in a storm like this,” remarked Madge. “We’re going to wait here for Ralph, and take a taxi to a hotel. We saw him in Milwaukee, and we agreed to do that if the storm came on—that all three of us would drop out of the race. We’d have to now, anyhow,” she added, pointing to the wrecked plane.
“Well, so long, then,” answered Linda, hurrying Amy into the autogiro.
They had scarcely left the ground when the rain came in torrents and the thunder and lightning grew sharper and sharper, until the terrific claps seemed to be breaking right about them, almost into their ears. With stoic courage Linda made for the heights. But she could not get out of the storm by climbing, so wisely she directed her plane as best she could away from its direction, going almost exactly west.