Would they attempt to fly the plane themselves and wreck it? She could but wait and see.
“Never find me here,” she repeated to herself as she sank deep into the fresh cut clover.
In the meantime Rosemary Sample and Willie VanGeldt were speeding to the rescue.
“Strange business this for a steady going stewardess of the air,” Rosemary was saying to herself. “I suppose there are a million girls who believe that being an airplane stewardess is exciting. Nothing, I suppose, is less exciting. But this—this is different, flying through the night with an amateur pilot in a plane that—”
“Willie!” she exclaimed, “We’re on the dot-dash again. Swing over. We’ve got to keep on the dotted line.”
Time passed. An hour sped into eternity, and yet another hour. It was approaching midnight. Rosemary switched on the dot-dot-dot of the directive radio to tune in on her home station and ask for a weather report.
The report filled her with fresh concern. “Willie,” she said in a quiet voice that, after all, was tense with emotion, “we’re headed straight for a thunderstorm. Be in the midst of it in less than an hour if we keep on this air-lane.”
“And if we don’t keep on it,” Willie groaned, “we’re lost, lost in the air at night. I’m for zooming straight ahead. Storm may swing some other way.”
It did not swing some other way. Three quarters of an hour later they were in the midst of it. Lightning flashed from cloud to cloud. The sky was black. Only the steady dot-dot-dot of the directive radio gave them hope.
And then, right in the midst of it, when the wind was tearing at their wings, when their struts were singing and the flash-flash of lightning was all but continuous, disaster descended upon them. Their radio went dead.