For a space of ten seconds there was grave danger that Rosemary would deviate from the path of duty, that she would smash Rule No. 1 for all airplane hostesses into bits. “Courtesy to all,” that was the rule. And in the end the rule won.
Getting a steady grip on herself, the girl glanced about, noted that the small room to the right was at that moment vacant, motioned her strangely distraught visitor—who, if appearances could be trusted, must have slept the night before in an alley and fought six policemen single-handed in the morning—inside, after which she closed the door.
“Than—oh thank you!” the young man gasped.
Then for a period of seconds he seemed quite at a loss as to what he might say next.
This gave the girl an opportunity for a swift character analysis. She was accustomed to this. She had flown for two years. Four hundred thousand miles of flying were down to her credit. Passengers, usually ten of them, flew with her. It was her duty to keep them comfortable and happy. To do this she must know them, though she had seen them but for an hour.
“He’s not as bad as I thought,” was her mental comment. “He’s not been drinking. He needs sleep. There’s a lot of trouble somewhere. But it’s not his trouble—at least not much of it. He needs help. He—”
As if reading this last thought, the youth gripped her arm to exclaim:
“You must help me!”
“All right.” Rosemary displayed all her teeth in a dazzling smile. “That’s my job. How shall I help you?”
“You’re flying west to Salt Lake City. Plane leaves in half an hour. I must have a place in that plane.”