“Yes, and here comes the rain,” was Mary’s answer as big drops began beating a tattoo on their fuselage.
Three minutes later, while the rain was coming down in torrents a laughing young doughboy carrying slickers on his arm climbed to the plane’s cabin to thrust in his head for a look.
“I win!” he shouted to someone standing in a tent door. “You lose your two bucks. She’s a lady! And, boy, oh, boy! Is she!”
There came a roar from the distant tent, then the boy crowded past the boxes of quinine to hold out the slickers.
“Here. Get into these,” he urged. “We heard about your coming and about the quinine. You won’t be here long. Gotta make every moment count.”
Smiling happily, Mary hid herself in a slicker six sizes too big, then raced away to the tent where she found a score of young men, most of them with full beards, singing:
“It ain’t going to rain no more.”
The instant she appeared the song broke off short.
“Here she is! Danny!” her escort shouted. “Now where’s the two bucks.”
“You gotta take that raincoat off her before I’m convinced,” came the defiant reply.