They had been hit again. Grace found herself admiring the shooting, for it really was excellent work, probably done with an automatic rifle in the hands of a former enemy sharpshooter.
The major cast an anxious glance up at the swaying bag, then down at that which was slowly assuming the appearance of Mother Earth. He was disturbed, not for himself but because of his passenger. Grace observed his distress.
“Don’t worry, Major. You know you said that nothing serious possibly could happen on this voyage, now that the war is over.”
“I take it back. The war isn’t over. It will be over mighty quickly, though, if I get my hands on the miserable Boche who is trying to shoot us down.”
“Trying to? He already has,” corrected the Overton girl.
There were now several folds in the big envelope, the sides of which seemed to be respirating like those of some huge animal, and they were falling altogether too rapidly to leave much hope for what was to come.
“We shall be down in a heap soon,” announced the officer calmly. “Mrs. Gray, are you in full possession of your nerve?”
“I think so. Why?”
“Because you’ve got to jump.”
“Oh!” “Captain” Grace could feel a cold sweat breaking out all over her. “Ho—ow—ho—ow high are we?”