“I’ll never be able to make it in time without an automobile,” moaned Roy to himself; “what shall I do?”
He cast about in his mind for some way out of his difficulty, but he could find none. Nor could the farmer help him. There were no automobiles in that part of the country, and in a horse-drawn vehicle he would never be able to make it in time.
All at once a queer sound filled the air. The atmosphere seemed to vibrate with it as it does on a still summer day when a threshing machine is buzzing away in a distant field.
“Land o’ Goshen, what’s that?” cried Mrs. Ingalls running to the door.
“Lish! Lish! come here quick!” she shouted the next instant.
Followed by the old hermit and Roy, Mr. Ingalls ran to the door. But his exclamations at the sight he saw were drowned by Roy’s amazed cry:
“It’s the Golden Butterfly!”
“An aeroplane!” shouted the farmer. “By gosh, she’s like a pretty bird.”
“It’s my—our aeroplane,” went on Roy; “who can be in it? Oh, if it’s only Peggy I may not be too late after all.”
He ran out into the door yard of the farm house and, snatching off his coat, began waving it desperately. Would the occupant of the aeroplane see his frantic signals? With a beating heart Roy watched the winged machine as it droned far above him.