Having seen them off, Jeanne went in search of her flying gypsies. They had planned to join in a reunion of their tribe a hundred miles away. Jeanne was to fly them there.
“Now,” said Willie VanGeldt when he and Rosemary were alone, “You said last night you would not fly with me. Why not?”
“Because—” an intent look overspread Rosemary’s usually smiling face. “Because you are grown up, and yet you insist on playing about, on making life a joke and because flying with you is not safe.”
“Not safe!” He stared. “I’ve a pilot’s license. Didn’t get it with a pull either. Earned it, I did.”
“I’m not questioning that,” she went on soberly. “All the same, it’s flyers like you who are spoiling this whole aviation business. Look at me—I’m a worker. Being a flying stewardess is my job. I work at it every month in the year. The pilots and their helpers, the mechanics in our shops, the radio men on duty all day, every day, depend on it for their living and the support of their families. Together we hope to make our transportation safe, comfortable and inexpensive for all. We—”
“Well, I—”
“No! Let me finish,” she insisted. “Look at our planes. Sixty of them, cost seventy thousand dollars apiece. Multiply that and see what it comes to. Shows that men with money believe in us.
“See how those planes are cared for. Looked over in every port. Least thing wrong, out they go. Motors taken off and overhauled every three hundred hours. Always in perfect condition.
“And you—” there was a rising inflection in her voice. “You go round the world proclaiming to all the world that life is a joke and that airplanes are grand, good playthings. You flirt with death. And in the end death will get you. Then thousands will say, ‘See! Flying is not safe!’ See what I mean?”
“Well, I—”