Less than five minutes after the Calleys had disappeared into the woods
the clatter of an approaching automobile interrupted the reminiscent
conversation of the two airmen.
It was the Mumford truck, and it carried Mumford, Gail Morgan, and five
other men. One of them, he perceived, was Ballardson. Another was a
doctor, who got to work on Apperson immediately.
“Gail told me all about it, Lieutenant,” said Mumford. “Of course we
couldn’t let a thing like this go on--”
“Of course not!” interrupted Ballardson. The fat peace officer was ill
at ease, and showed it. “I’m glad there wasn’t nothin’ to it.”
“There was something to it, but it ended all right,” Hemingwood told
him, and a perverse imp in his eyes was unseen in the darkness. He
narrated the night’s events briefly, and then added: “I’m sure grateful
to you for sending me that note of warning!”
He was watching closely, and knew he had scored. Ballardson’s mouth
opened and closed in fish-like gasps. Hemingwood turned to the other
men, who were suddenly interested.
“Got an anonymous note, warning me to get out of town for safety’s sake.
Just found out it was from Ballardson here. Thanks again, Officer.”
The men were silent, as though at a complete loss for words. Hemingwood
knew, however, that he had put a weapon in their hands which would save
both them and him any reprisal from the crooked official for the night’s
work. He was aware of how slight an excuse was needed for a mountain
feud, and surmised that Mumford and the other East Point men had made a
real sacrifice in coming to his assistance.
The men drifted over to the ship to examine it at close range.
Hemingwood gave Mumford succinct details about the note and the
successful shot he had fired at Ballardson a moment before, and then
joined Gail, who had been standing quietly in the background.
“Gail, we never can thank you enough, of course,” he said.
“Don’t try, then. I’ll take it for granted,” she laughed back.
She was elusively lovely in the moonlight, and Hemingwood found himself
in the grip of profoundly disturbing emotions.
“Ever since I arrived you’ve been doing favors for me,” he found himself
saying. And then to his own surprise, he added: “I wish you’d do me one
more favor, and marry me!”
For a second her glorious eyes met his own squarely. Then she turned
away quickly, and laughed.
“It might not be a favor!” she said lightly, and slipped away toward her
uncle.
The truck carried Apperson back to town, but Hemingwood stayed out at
the field. He did not sleep well, either. Hour after hour he examined
himself, mentally, and in the end he decided that he was afraid he was
in love.
The succeeding week only made him surer of it. While Apperson was
convalescing he spent every possible hour with Gail, but never was the
subject closest to his heart mentioned. George Arlington Hemingwood, who
had never known what it was to be shy or at a loss, was totally unable
to nerve himself for the ordeal of a serious proposal. Night after night
he tried, only to stutter off into banal nothings.
That is, until the morning when, Apperson being recovered and the
pictures all taken, they were about to take off for home. With a crowd
around to watch the take-off, his helmet and goggles on his head and the
motor idling along on the warm-up under Apperson’s skillful hand, he
impulsively bent over and whispered his plea into her ear. She listened
quietly, her hand clasped in his. They were in back of the crowd and for
the moment seemed to be inhabiting a little world all their own.
“Can’t you possibly say ‘yes’?” he asked her, his eyes holding hers
steadily.
“I’m sorry--but I don’t quite know yet,” she whispered. “I like you
better than any man I’ve ever known.” She hesitated, and then leaned
close to him and said rapidly, “I think I want to say yes--but George,
I’m not sure! Perhaps this summer--”
He pressed her eagerly for a definite answer, but she shook her head.
Even so, there was a song on his lips and such a leaping light in his
eyes as he got in the ship that Apperson took one look at him, glanced
at the flushed face of the girl, and smiled an enigmatic smile below his
owl-like goggles.
Hemingwood took off, circled the field, and then obeyed an impulse to
give the crowd a parting thrill. He swooped down low over the field and
waved a farewell. In the forefront of the crowd he saw Gail, and she was
beckoning wildly. For a moment he stared. She was signaling him down!
He landed, taxied the ship to the edge of the field, and turned it
around. She appeared alongside the ’plane, her hair whipping in the
propeller blast and her eyes glowing warmly. The astonished crowd looked
on, wondering, as she put her lips close to his ear and said quickly:
“When I saw you leaving I found out that I _was_ sure! Will you
be back this week-end?”
George Arlington Hemingwood yelled like a Comanche Indian, and started
to climb out.
“Not now--no!”
“All right! Tell all the folks, and I’ll be here Saturday if I have to
build a ship!”
Thuswise she sent him away.
* * * * *
Not until Goddard Field was in sight did George Arlington Hemingwood, of
the Hemingwoods of Boston, come out of his rose tinted trance. His face
was one wide grin as he sent the ton-and-a-half bomber roaring downward
in sweeping spirals and graceful wingturns.
“Just before I left I seem to remember some remarks about love and
matrimony!” he reflected. “I’ll have to tell these roughnecks some time,
I suppose. Won’t that boy Snapper rave! And won’t I get the razz!”
He did. It continued spasmodically long after the quarters of Mr. and
Mrs. Hemingwood became a popular gathering place, but Hemingwood bore up
under it wonderfully.
THE END
[Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the July 10, 1924 issue of
Short Stories magazine.]