Or—wait a minute! Maybe his first hunch was right after all. For most of those staring down at him looked like people, but surely the vision bent closest was that of an angel? A golden-haired angel with heaven-blue eyes, warm lips, a cool, white skin which the sun seemed never to have burned, but only to have endowed with a memory of its own inner glow.
"Lovely!" said Ramey drowsily, and the vision's face colored most unecclesiastically. Behind Ramey someone chuckled. Ramey, turning painfully, saw a tall, mahogany-skinned, nice-looking youngster with brown hair and eyes, dancing eyes crow's-footed with the wrinkles of perpetual mirth. This lad and the girl, he saw now, were the only whites in the circle. All the others were natives. The young man laughed again.
"Well, Sheila, there doesn't seem to be anything the matter with this one! Or with his emotional reflexes."
Recollection seeped slowly back upon Ramey. He made an effort to rise.
"The—the 'plane," he said confusedly. "Went dead. I tried to set 'er down in a field. Crashed—"
The girl restrained him gently but firmly. The cool touch of her hands was soothing.
"You must lie still, now. Everything is going to be all right. You did crash, yes. But fortunately we were here to drag you and your friend out before the 'plane caught fire. After you've rested for a moment, we'll take you to camp—"
It all came back to Ramey now. This time the girl's hands could not prevent him from raising himself.
"Red! Is—is he all right, too?"
The young man answered.