McClintock, pushing Jimmy before him, started for the main office and found himself surrounded by an excited group of men and women. An upstanding chap in a British major’s uniform who wore a cap on which was the red velvet band of a staff officer, stepped forward.
“We’re Miss Ashley’s friends,” he said, with a touch of feeling in his voice, “and we’ll do everything we can to assist you. She’s a bit untamed, sir, and she shouldn’t have done that wild, foolish thing, but she’s the best woman alive for all of that and now that she’s in danger we’re going to help you see her out of it. Has that dirigible got a wireless on board?”
“No,” replied the manager. “There wasn’t any need for one. Since it’s been here it’s never been more than a mile or two away from the hangar before.”
“That’s bad—damned bad,” responded the officer. “Of course, maybe they’ll be able to fix the engine but we can’t take chances on that. If you’ll let me use your telephone I’ll call up our embassy in Washington and get them to get in touch with the Navy Department. We’ll have all the ships in range of the Arlington station on the lookout in an hour.”
The thoroughly sobered group of pleasure seekers who had accompanied the Hon. Betty to Jollyland two hours before, followed McClintock and Jimmy Martin into the offices in the administration building and talked in low voices while the major began to fuss in the telephone booth with the long distance operator. Some of the women were weeping.
Chapter Four
In the seclusion of his private office Jimmy telephoned the Associated Press, the police and the nearest United States life saving station, in the order named, while McClintock, who was plainly tremendously worried, paced restlessly up and down the floor, pausing occasionally to glance out of the window at the broad expanse of sky and sea in the vain hope that some sight of the lost dirigible might greet his eye. Just as Jimmy began calling up the metropolitan newspaper offices in a fine frenzy of excitement, both men heard the office door slam violently. They turned in unison and found themselves confronted by Lolita Murphy. Gone was the shy manner, the demure smile and the air of coy ingenuousness. Her checks were flushed, her eyes were blazing and her whole manner indicated that she was in what is generally referred to as a “state of mind.”
“Hello, girlie,” Jimmy called out pleasantly, “what’s the matter?”
“Don’t you dare girlie me, Mr. James T. Martin,” retorted Lolita in a voice that she was palpably trying, with a great effort, to keep at an even and menacing tone. “Don’t you dare to speak to me again. I came in to tell you that and to let you know that even if I do come from Cedar Rapids I can’t be fooled by any New York—by any New York—bunco man.”