“Hurt, Miss?” Wat came running.
“Thank you, no,” she told him.
“You’re mighty lucky.” His rough face was white through its tan and to relieve his feelings, he shook his fist after the racing plane and its pilot.
“I hope you fly to perdition,” he shouted.
“Second the motion,” Roberta added, then she began to laugh hysterically and Wat stared down at her.
“Sure you’re all right?” he asked again.
“Positive,” she told him.
“You sure got a good guardian angel!”
“You don’t seem overly fond of Mrs. Pollzoff.”
“I don’t know anyone who is,” he replied.