“’Tis no such a bonny country,” he remarked, sucking at his pipe.
“Funny people, wild as March hares,” assented Hemingwood. “They’ll think several times before they really try to harm us, though. The most we’ve got to look forward to is another attempt to harm the ship, I imagine. Our hides will stay intact except under unusual circumstances. Let’s pitch the bungalow so I can catch a nap before dinner arrives.”
Which they did. And Hemingwood, entirely unaffected by the note in his pocket, fell asleep immediately. He had much more interesting things to think about than crazy mountaineers. Miss Morgan, for instance.
His awakening was very pleasant, being brought about through the medium of Gail Morgan’s far from unmusical voice. He thrust his tousled head through the flaps of the tent and smiled through the fog of heavy slumber.
“I hope I’m awake and that this isn’t a dream,” he greeted her.
“I brought you large sections of food which may be a little more appetizing than you could have found,” she told him, smiling down from her throne on Pegasus. “If urged, I might even toy delicately with some of it myself. My aunt couldn’t come.”
She wore no hat, and her piquant face was framed in flying brown hair. Hemingwood smiled appreciatively at the picture she presented.
“Where’s Apperson?” he inquired.
“Asleep in the ship.”