“Oh no; you set them up.” Jeanne joined him in the laugh. Then, digging deep in her knickers pocket, she dragged forth a new five dollar bill. “You take this and get me some gas. You can keep the rest. Just enough gas to take me to the landing field. Where is the nearest one?”
“Thanks! Er—” the boy paused to cackle again. “Them shocks was just husked. I husked ’em. Weren’t tied none. If they wasn’t husked you’d might nigh cracked up, I reckon.
“I’ll get the gas,” he added hurriedly. “Sure I will. Landin’ field over thar.” He pointed north. “Ten miles. How come you all didn’t stop thar?”
“No gas.” Jeanne smiled a happy smile. “But say! You hurry!” she put in as he moved slowly away. “I’m a lady cop of the air. I was chasing a spy.”
“Gee Whillikins! A spy!” The boy was away on the run.
CHAPTER XVI
A SUSPICIOUS CHARACTER
Jeanne had lost her spy. She had lost herself as well. Only after much flying and four landings was she able to find her way back to the spot where Madame Bihari patiently awaited her. When she arrived the sun was setting once more and it was again time for tea.
As on the previous night, Jeanne lay long beneath her canopy of red and gold. But no silver plane came to shine down upon her.
“Marvelous plane,” she murmured. “Wonder if I shall ever see it again, or learn the secret of its shining beauty?”
On the day following the dance, Florence took a forenoon off to climb to the crest of a hill that overlooked the city. She sat herself down upon a heap of fallen leaves, then proceeded to indulge in an occupation quite unusual for a girl. Selecting a fine smooth stick that had lain long enough upon the ground to become brittle and all sort of “whitty,” she began to whittle. A boy cousin had long ago introduced her to the joyous art of whittling. What did she make? Mostly nothing at all. She just whittled. And as she carved away at the brittle wood, she thought. Long, deep thoughts they were too. Ah yes, there was the charm of whittling—it made thinking easy.