“You lady soldiers,” he laughed, “you are the dead-sure shots.”
“Who knows?” she murmured. She was seeing a little gray-haired man and a girl standing at the window of a log cabin on Black Knob Island with tommy-guns on their knees.
“Here are the films. And good shooting to you,” he laughed.
“He wouldn’t say that if he could read my thoughts,” she told herself.
Having paid for her films, she stepped once more into the crisp air.
After wrapping her camera and new films in her utility coat and placing them in the bike basket, she paused to examine the old films he had given her.
“There are four instead of three,” she thought with a start. Then, without knowing why, she pocketed the films and rode rapidly away.
Did she hear a distant shout while only a quarter of a mile down the road? She did not look back. She peddled for a mile or more along the shore road and entered a small fishing village. She was just in time to see the fisherwoman turn up the path leading to her own door.
“Wait a minute,” she called. The woman waited.
“Will you allow me to take your picture?” she asked as she came close.