The unmistakable honk-honk of a friendly car sounded like Gabriel’s trumpet—if paradise had been promised to all.
“Yes,” exclaimed Gloria, holding to Marty’s wet coat to keep from falling over the narrow platform. “That’s Trixy and Ben!”
“Ben?”
“Yes. A friend from—my home town. Oh, if I can only make them hear!”
Gathering a long full breath she called:
“Trixy! Tri-x-y—Trix!!!”
She pealed out the syllables with every bit of power she could command. But the horn honked uninterruptedly.
Then Marty tried it. He cupped his hands to his mouth and yelled! “Trix-ee! Hey, there! Trix-ee Trav-verse! Whoo-hool!” His voice echoed with an uncanny resonance, but the horn of the car outside never listened.
Gloria dropped her arm from his shoulder. “They can’t hear us,” she murmured.
“No. The drive is blocked with big planks across, and they have to stop way down by the cedars.”