“I’m afraid Joel doesn’t share your sentiments,” laughed Walter. “To speak of gypsy to him is like waving a red rag at a bull.”
“They’re not very likely to settle down here,” declared Jack. “They usually pitch their tents somewhere in the vicinity of a town, so that they can have plenty of visitors. The nearest place to this spot they’d be likely to fix on is Wilton. That’s quite a good-sized town, and there’s a big summer hotel there. But that’s as much as four miles away.”
“What’s distance to us as long as we have the cars?” said Cora. “For that matter, it wouldn’t be too far to walk. I wish you boys would keep your eyes and ears open and let us know if you find out anything about them.”
They promised readily, but several days passed without any scrap of news from the wandering tribe.
One other bit of news, however, gave them unqualified pleasure. They learned from a paper that Jack secured on a trip to a neighboring town that Miss Moore had safely landed at Governor’s Island and had broken all records for a cross-country flight.
“Oh, I’m so glad!” exclaimed Cora, clapping her hands. “I’ve been worrying ever since that morning for fear I’d caused her to lose, and I know how much her mind was set on winning.”
And forthwith she dispatched a telegram, care of the Aero Club, that read:
“Your grateful passenger sends warmest love and congratulations.”
And it may well be guessed that few of the messages that overwhelmed Miss Moore on the completion of her wonderful feat brought her more real satisfaction than this.
“I’m pining away for a trip on the lake,” announced Belle, one beautiful morning a few days later.