Not so the youth in tattered clothes who stood outside the gate, gazing in at Mary’s big plane.
“That’s some plane you’ve got.” He tipped his seedy hat.
“You’re an American, too.” She smiled.
“Yes—I—guess so. At least I used to be.” He did not smile. “Now, well, I guess you’d say I’m sort of a tropical tramp. Been down here for five years.”
“But,” his voice rose, “Boy! That plane of yours. Must be the best there is!”
“Ever do any flying?” she asked. She should be going on but this boy interested her.
“Sure—I’ve flown quite a bit, here and in U.S.A., too.”
“Why don’t you join up?”
“Your outfit?” He grinned broadly. “You’re a girl.”
“Oh, but there are a lot more men than women flying for the Ferry Command.”