After releasing the rectractible wheel landing gear, which turned the
big amphibian from a seaplane into one which could land on terra firma,
Bill brought his big bus gently down to the ten acre lot behind the
Bolton residence.
As the plane rolled forward on its rubber tired wheels and came to a
stop, two men came walking in its direction from the trees at the edge
of the field.
"Here come our respective fathers--" announced Bill, stripping off his
headgear. "Remember--I take all responsibility for bringing you back in
the plane."
"You--do nothing of the kind!" Dorothy's tone was final. She handed him
her head-phone and running back through the cabin, vaulted the low
bulwark to the ground.
Bill hurriedly made things secure in the cockpit and followed her.
"And so you see, Dad," he heard her say, as he approached where they
stood, "Bill not only saved my life--he took all kinds of chances with
his own, flying in a gale like that. And--oh! I forgot to tell you that
he warned me _not_ to go out in the _Scud_ this afternoon!" she ended
with a mischievous look toward Bill.
Mr. Dixon was a tall man, whose tanned, rugged features and searching
gaze suggested the sportsman. He turned from his excited daughter, with
a smile and an outstretched hand.
"I'm beginning to realize, young man, that I owe you an apology for my
shortness over the phone. Judging from Dorothy's story, I can never hope
to express my gratitude for what you've done today."
Bill mumbled an embarrassed platitude as he shook hands, and was glad
when Mr. Bolton broke into the conversation.
"The Boltons, father and son, were probably born to be hung," he
chuckled. "It's a family trait, to fall into scrapes--and so far, to get
out of them just as quickly. Now, as nobody has been polite enough to
introduce me to the heroine of this meeting--I'm the hero's fond parent,
Miss Dorothy. We are about to celebrate this festive occasion by a
housewarming, in the form of a scrap dinner at the hero's home--what say
you?"
"But I thought you were coming to our house--" cried Dorothy. "I--"
"But me no buts, young lady. Your father has already accepted for you
both and we simply can't take no for an answer."
Dorothy glanced at Bill, who stood rather sheepishly in the background.
Then she laughed. "Why, of course, if you put it that way--I'd love to
come; that is, if the _hero_ is willing!"
"Say, do you think that's fair!" Bill's face was red. He didn't think
much of that kind of kidding. "I think it would be great, that is, if
you mean me," he ended in confusion.
Amid the general laughter that followed, Dorothy uttered a cry of
disgust. "But I can't come like this--" she pointed to her clothes,
which were the things that Bill had laid out for her in the big plane's
cabin.
"You look charming--" Mr. Bolton bowed, and Dorothy blushed. "However--"
"Make it snappy, then, dear." Mr. Dixon drew out his watch. "You have
just fifteen minutes. And Mr. Bolton won't keep dinner waiting for you,
if he's as famished as I am!"
"Oh, give me twenty!" she pleaded.
"All right--hurry, now!"
With a wave of her hand, Dorothy darted away.
"I'll look after the plane, Bill," said his father, as she disappeared
among the orchard trees. "I want to show Mr. Dixon over it, and that
will give you time for a slicking-up before dinner."
It was a jolly, though belated meal that was eventually served to them
in the cool, green dining room of the Bolton's summer home that evening.
Mr. Dixon, with the finesse of an astute business man, drew out Mr.
Bolton and his son, and the two told tales of adventure by land and sea
and air that fascinated the New England high school girl. It all seemed
unreal to her, sitting in the soft light of the candles. Yet the Boltons
made light of hairbreadth escapes in the world's unmapped areas--just as
if these strange adventures were daily occurrences in their lives, she
thought.
"It certainly is a shame!" she burst out suddenly. Coffee had been
served and they had moved to the comfort of low wicker chairs on the
terrace. The air was filled with the perfume of June roses.
"What's a shame?" Bill, now spick and span in white flannels, settled
back in his chair.
"Why, all the wonderful times you and Mr. Bolton have had--while Dad and
I were sticking around in New Canaan. I'd love to be an adventurer," she
finished.
"I dare say you'd find it mighty uncomfortable at times," observed her
father. "How about it, Bolton?"
"Like everything else, it has its drawbacks and becomes more or less of
a grind when one 'adventures' day in and day out--" that gentleman
admitted. "I'm only too glad to be able to settle down in this beautiful
ridge country for a few months--to rest and be quiet."
"There you are, Dorothy." Her father smiled in the darkness. "And who
would there be out in the wilds to admire that smart frock you're
wearing, for instance?"
"Gee, Dad! You know I don't care half as much about clothes as lots of
the girls--and that hasn't anything to do with it, anyway."
"I think we ought to break the news to her," suggested Bill, a white
blur in the depths of his chair.