It was now getting on toward noon. The crisp morning air had sharpened their appetites and it was agreed to stop at the next village for lunch. In half an hour they had whirled into the main street of a prosperous-looking middle-west town.
The motor guide book directed them to Snyder’s and they presently pulled up in front of a large frame building painted white with green shutters. On the front piazza sat a number of men in armchairs, their feet on the railing, smoking and reading the morning papers.
Before they had time to get out, the aeroplanist said to Miss Campbell:
“I am deeply obliged to you for your kindness. My name is Peter Van Vechten. May I have the honor of asking your names?”
There was quite an old-world courtesy about this Peter Van Vechten that appealed to the little lady, and she promptly introduced her girls and herself.
Just at this moment a small racing car could be seen coming toward them at a terrific speed. People and vehicles scattered at its approach, but just before it reached the Comet it stopped short and a man jumped out and ran to them.
“All right, Jackson,” said Peter Van Vechten. “I suppose you got wind that the aeroplane was wrecked and had a fright.”
“I did, sir, indeed. But a farmer had watched through his glasses and he saw you get into a motor. Thank heavens, you’re safe, sir.”
“Through the kindness of these ladies,” said Peter. “Is the luggage all here?”
“It is, sir.”