“Then, with your permission, Miss Campbell, I will say good-by. Thank you again. Perhaps we may meet on the plains.”
“What month is the race?” asked Billie.
“In July. It starts the Fourth of July.”
“Good-by and good luck to you,” they cried, as the departing aeroplanist leaped into the motor car beside the chauffeur, and in another moment they were out of sight.
For awhile things seemed rather dull to Miss Campbell and the Motor Maids, such a romantic halo encircles the head of him who flies through the air, and this ingratiating Peter Van Vechten, with his reddish hair and his keen brown eyes, also his polished manners, left a very deep impression on them all.
The luncheon was poor. It was early dinner, really, with cabbage and boiled mutton and very stiff-looking mashed potatoes, watery canned peas and leathery pie for dessert. They were glad to get back to the Comet again and glad to be on the road.
Already they seemed to have been traveling an endless time. But the first day of a long journey always affects people in this way. For some inexplicable reason they were a little homesick. The monotony of this level country oppressed them, endless green fields, which had once been vast prairie lands, covered with waving grass and a multitude of wild flowers.
Late that afternoon, when they stopped for gasoline at a garage in a thriving little village, a group of men stood about the door talking.
“Escaped in a flying machine?” said one.
“It’s an up to date way to fly from justice,” put in another.