“It’s an outpost and so dangerous to approaching enemy ships or planes.”
“You mean it could be,” Tom corrected. “Just now the few who are here could perhaps protect the island itself. That’s about all. But, I say!” he exclaimed. “You’re really good with that light!”
“Oh! Sure!” she laughed. “Rosa and I, we’re a great team!”
Oddly enough, at that moment she had the feeling of one who acts a part in a drama, a part she is sure to act again. It was strange.
“Rosa,” Norma said when at last they were back at Indian Point, headed for Harbor Bells and a good dinner, “I never dreamed you could fly a plane.”
“Fly a plane,” Rosa threw back her plump shoulders and laughed. “My father is a flier; he is also a guide. In summer he takes hunting and fishing parties deep into the wilds of Canada. Ah! That is the life, to come dropping from the skies like a wild duck and to light on a perfect spot of blue water where almost no one has ever been.
“And,” she paused to look into her companion’s eyes, “will you believe me? I have done that, too, since I was seventeen years old. Fly!” she exclaimed. “I know you thought I was crazy in Des Moines. And, yes, I was crazy. Crazy to feel the stick in my hands, to hear the motor and feel a plane move.
“Yes, I was crazy. But those boys who made fun of me, those young fliers—I could have flown circles around every one of them. But you, you were very kind to get me out of it so very well. I have you to thank for that. And we’ll fly again some time maybe, huh? What do you think?”
“Rosa,” said Norma, “you are a dear. And if we do fly again, I shall not be afraid.”
After dinner Norma made a call. In her own village she had discovered a bearded veteran of the photographic world, who still did a little work in his own home. He was a picturesque character who, only two years before, had moved from Portland to Indian Harbor.