“I suppose so,” remarked Tom. “You say that this farm is about four miles from here. Could you give us more exact directions?”
The obliging operator could and did, and Tom and Ned hurried back to their plane, taking with them two quarts of coffee and a double portion of ham and eggs and rolls that they had had put up for the faithful Koku.
While the giant feasted, Tom took his bearings, and as soon as Koku had finished they climbed into the Winged Arrow and turned it in the direction of the Goby farm. To make a mile a minute was nothing to the powerful plane, and in less than five minutes it was hovering over a homestead which answered to the description that the operator had given. It was in slightly rolling country with several hills in the vicinity, differing from the unrelieved flat plain on which Copperhead stood. It was a pleasant place and seemed like an oasis amid the throng of derricks that reared themselves on every side.
The house itself was a substantial two-story structure with a sloping roof. There were white curtains at the windows and a perfect riot of flowers at the front and around two sides of the building. The whiteness and the daintiness of the curtains seemed to show the presence of a feminine hand.
Tom made a landing about three hundred feet from the house. A movement among the curtains showed that the roar of the engine had attracted attention from at least one of the inmates. Leaving Koku with the plane, Tom and Ned made their way to the house.
Tom knocked and the door was promptly opened by one of the most charming girls imaginable. She was slightly above medium height, had a perfect figure, beautifully formed features, and wavy chestnut hair and limpid brown eyes. It was evident that the enthusiastic young telegraph operator had not erred when he had described her.
To Tom, with his mind and heart full of Mary, she was simply a very pretty girl. To Ned, she seemed a heavenly vision, the sweetest thing he had ever seen.
“Does Mr. Goby live here?” asked Tom, removing his cap.
“Yes,” was the reply, in a soft, musical voice that completed Ned’s undoing. “I am his daughter. Won’t you walk in?”
“My name is Swift,” said Tom, as they accepted her invitation, “and this is my friend, Mr. Newton. We came to see your father on a little business matter.”