With a happy smile Mary threw aside her raincoat.
There came a succession of low gasps, then whispers: “It is! It’s a gal pilot.”
At that a tall doughboy shuffled forward. “We drew straws,” he began bashfully. “I lost so I’ve got to make you a speech. We—we all want to thank you for the quinine. A lot of our buddies are in the hospital. We’ve been out of quinine for a week and,—and who knows which of us goes on sick leave next so—”
“As you were—” Mary’s voice faltered, then steadied. “You should know that we gals in the army ask only one thing, to be treated as buddies and—and regular soldiers.”
This speech was received with a round of cheers.
“Come on, boys!” shouted a husky sergeant who beyond doubt had crashed many a football line. “Give her the hero’s rush.”
At that they hoisted her to their shoulders and heading into the drenching rain, carried her away to the hospital.
There, safely hidden away at the edge of the jungle, they put her down in a big tent packed full of cots and on every cot rested an invalid soldier.
“Boys,” said the sergeant, “we’ve brought you the two best things in the world, plenty of quinine and a lady.”
“Speech! Speech!” came from every corner.