So Judy told of her father’s letter and his being held in Berlin because of the knowledge he had of Turkey’s topography. She made him laugh long and loud when she told of the ridiculous limericks he had written on the paper boats.
“And you, Robert Kean’s daughter, want to fly, and to fly with our bravest and most daring aviator! Well, don’t fly off to America with him,—and God bless you, my children,” and he gave Judy a fatherly embrace and went back to his map.
When Kent got back to the car with his cousin, there was no Judy.
“Where can she have gone and where is Williams?”
Philippe looked rather mysterious. Young girls who rushed up and embraced bird men with such ardor should not be allowed too much rope.
“No doubt she will be back soon. Williams is perhaps showing her the camp. Look, there goes another machine up! Two in it! By Jove, it is Williams! I can tell by his way of starting. He has such a smooth getaway always. Could the passenger be Miss Kean?”
“More than likely,” said Kent composedly. “She has always been crazy to fly. I reckon Williams will take good care of her and not go too high or try any stunts.”
“Oh, certainly not!” said Philippe wonderingly. Americans were a riddle to him. He never quite understood his own mother, who had rather a casual idea of proprieties herself at times. That good lady, coming up just then, expressed no concern over the impropriety of Judy’s flying with a man when she was to be married on the morrow to some one else.
Kent sat in the car with his cousin Sally and together they enjoyed Judy’s flight. Jo took her as close to the fighting line as she dared, but she had no idea of endangering the life of her passenger. They dipped and curved, for the most part confining their maneuvers to the vicinity of the camp. Judy never spoke one word, but held her breath and wept for sheer joy.
“To be flying! To be flying! Oh, Judy Kean, you lucky dog!” she said to herself. “All my life I’ve been dreaming I could fly and now I am doing it.”