For half an hour they plodded steadily ahead until they struck a dirt road running at right angles to their own course.
“We’ll turn to the left. At least we’ll be going toward Kearney,” said Miss Comstock.
They trudged a mile down the road before they came to a farmhouse. A dog greeted them with lusty barks and the farmer threw up a window on the second floor.
“What’s going on out there?” he cried.
“We’re stewardesses on the Federated Airways,” Miss Comstock shouted. “Our plane crashed about an hour ago in the hills over toward the Platte. We’ve got to get to a phone so we can call a doctor and inform the line about the accident.”
“Come right in. I’ll be down in a minute.”
A light flashed in the room upstairs and the farmer, dressing hastily, hurried down.
Miss Comstock almost rang the telephone off the wall in trying to arouse the operator on the rural line, but at last got her call through to the field at Kearney and told the night man there what had happened.
The farmer supplied them with directions for the field relief crew and the Kearney men promised to arrive with a doctor within the hour. The farmer’s wife hastened down and insisted on making coffee and sandwiches.
“Was anyone badly injured?” she asked.