“Yes—yes. Oh, yes, he knows Florence.”
“Then is it a go?”
“Yes, I—guess— Yes. Sure it is!”
“Poor Plumdum!” Jeanne was thinking, and then, “Poor Florence.”
Ten minutes later, as the hydroplane once again left the water to soar wide and high, Jeanne sensed rather than felt that the wind was picking up.
“We’ll have to hurry,” she shrilled in the pilot’s ear.
The pilot nodded as he put on a sudden burst of speed.
CHAPTER XV
THE DOG’S PARACHUTE
By this time you are wondering what had happened to Florence. She had paused to consider her own plight. She had lost all trace of the trail, was surrounded by smoke and flames and knew of no certain way of escape. The only answer to such a problem was retreat.
But which way? Up the ridge perhaps. She resolved to try this. The wall of rock was all but perpendicular. At times she was obliged to find a toe hold in a crack between rocks, then to grasp the root of a tree that, like herself, clung precariously, then drag herself up. Always there was the danger of a fall. A broken leg might mean a terrible death by fire.