“Afraid?” the girl said.
“Yes, of a trap,” was the all but inaudible answer.
Grandfather was thinking slowly, carefully, weighing the wisdom of laying a volley across the spot in the sea.
“They could be friends,” he whispered. “We’ll wait. Perhaps they will speak. Then we’ll know.”
So they waited and while they waited the low roar of many planes began beating on their eardrums.
“Oh!” Patsy squirmed in fear. “If these are enemy planes from a carrier—”
“They’ll not bomb Black Knob,” was the cheering assurance. “They only drop bombs where there are many people.”
“Listen,” he ended. “See if you can get their direction.”
Once again, save for the occasional dip-dip of a paddle, silence hung over Black Knob.
Suddenly, after gripping the old man’s arm with intense eagerness, the girl whispered: