“I have them, sir.”
“What are they doing?”
“Creeping in formation.”
“Good! You are an observer already. Lean over and look down. Get used to it. Make you dizzy?”
“A little. I get dizzy when the basket tries to lie down on its side, and feel as if I were going to fall out.”
The major laughed and motioned to her to sit down.
“Going to have tiffin now. Don’t bother us with your family troubles down there, at least not until after the whistle blows,” he called through the telephone, and doubling his legs under him he sat down on the bottom of the basket, with an appetizing-looking luncheon spread out on a piece of paper in his lap.
They could hear the wind roaring over them now, but only breaths of it sucked down into the basket. A thermos bottle of tea that was still hot was handed to Grace, Major Colt producing another from “nowhere” for his own consumption.
“Drink it down. It will put new life into you. Dip into the food too. There’s plenty and to spare. Suppose you never sat down to tiffin thirty-five hundred feet in the air?”
Grace said she never had.