“An—an airplane,” she gasped. Closing her eyes, she executed a sudden dive.
This action would have proved futile, the pontoons of the plane sank deep. Fortunately, they passed some thirty feet from the spot where the girl disappeared.
When she rose sputtering to the surface, her first thought was of the fish. No use. The line was slack, the salmon gone.
She looked up at the plane. At that moment a young aviator was peering anxiously out over the fuselage.
“Ah! There you are!” he beamed. “I’m awfully glad.”
“Why don’t you look where you’re going? You cut my line. I lost my fish.” Florence was truly angry.
“Fish? Oh, I see! You were fishing?” The young aviator stood up. He was handsome in an exciting sort of way. “But I say!” he exclaimed, “I’ll fix that. I’ve a whole leg of venison here in my old bus. What do you say we share it? Can you bake things?”
“Sure, but my aunt can do it much better.” Florence climbed upon a pontoon to shake the water out of her hair.
Five hours later, with the rain beating a tattoo on the well weathered roof of the cabin, they were seated about the hand-hewn table, the Hughes family, Florence, and the young aviator. Seven candles winked and blinked on the broad board. At the head sat Mark, and before him the first roast of wild venison the family had ever tasted. How brown and juicy it was!
“Wonderful!” Florence murmured. “How did you get it?” the words slipped unbidden from her lips.