Men Sat Cross-Legged in the Midst of Their Wares
Men Sat Cross-Legged in the Midst of Their Wares
Men Sat Cross-Legged in the Midst of Their Wares
All too soon she was to learn that his actions had more meaning than they appeared to have.
“It is all arranged.” Her father was again at her side. “We are to be at the garden gate in just two hours. You’ll find it fascinating, the experience of a lifetime.”
“In these days,” she replied slowly, “each experience is one of a lifetime.
“I just saw the man who has an overnight bag like mine,” she added.
“Did you? What of that?”
“I don’t really know. He ducked, that’s all, rode a donkey right through the crowd.”
“That’s strange.”
“It sure was.”
When, some twenty minutes later, in search of a clean handkerchief, Mary opened her bag, she let out a gasp:
“Why! This is not my bag!”
Her father stared. “It must be!”
“It’s not. These garments are not mine. Nothing is mine. And,” she ran her hand through the carefully packed bag, “the roll of papyrus is not here!”
“That man must somehow have gotten his bag mixed with yours.”
“But this is a lady’s bag.”
“It must belong to his wife.”
“But he’s fat, a Dutchman, or German I think. Who ever heard of a slender German housefrau? And these clothes are my size.” She held up a shimmering dream robe. “It’s the strangest thing I ever heard of,” she said when, after five minutes of examining the contents of the bag, she held up a beautiful party dress. “You’d think that my bag had been burned up, contents and all, and that someone, who knew the contents very well, had gone to the trouble of replacing it piece by piece. Every article here is brand new. Only the papyrus roll is missing.”
“It is strange,” her father agreed, “but the ways of enemy spies are past finding out, or, perhaps, he was only an Oriental robber.”
“A thief of Bagdad?”
“Something like that. The roll of papyrus may be quite valuable, worth many thousands. That depends upon the Egyptian dynasty from which it came. Museums pay almost any price for certain rare writings from those ancient times.”
“Why did I accept it?” Mary moaned.
“Why did I encourage you to accept it,” he amended. “Perhaps time will bring the answer. Then again there may be no real answer. Come, let’s get ready for the Persian garden party. We have quite a way to go, and donkeys are slow.
“You didn’t happen to have any secret papers in your traveling bag, did you?” he asked as they rode toward his friend’s garden home.
“None whatever, not even a letter. Sparky keeps all our papers in a secret compartment of the plane. That’s where the papyrus should have been, but who would suppose—”
“That anyone in Persia would be interested in that roll?”
“Yes, or know anything about it.”
“The enemy’s network of spies is vast and endless. Without doubt they have radio connections with every large city.”
“You keep hinting that the papyrus carries a secret message or something. You surely don’t think a message written so long ago means anything to this generation?”
“There are those who do. I can find you men who will tell you how this war is to end. They found it all written out in the Koran, or the Bible.”
“You’re not clearing things up much.”
“Let’s forget the whole business,” he suggested. “We accepted no responsibility, only agreed to try to get the roll to America. Well, at present, it appears that we have failed. The sun is lower now. My friend’s garden will be delightful. Let us sing while we may.”
The garden was all that he had promised, and more. Having arrived at a massive, iron-bound gate in a wall, they tethered their donkeys, then knocked. The gate swung open and they stepped inside.
“Look up,” said the Colonel.
“How gorgeous!” Mary exclaimed as her eyes feasted themselves on the scene that lay above them. Up a steep slope ran two stone walks. Between these walks a small stream of crystal-clear water gurgled and danced over bright colored tiles.
Between the walks and water were narrow flower beds all aglow with blossoms.
Here and there the stream spread out into a pool or rose into a spouting fountain. About the pools were more flowers, while on the surface water lilies—lily pads with yellow flowers—lay.
As they walked slowly up the narrow walk, the valley widened a little. Low trees began to appear on either side. Beyond this they saw a small house that was all doors and windows.
“It’s out of a story book,” Mary whispered.
“Yes, Arabian Nights,” her father agreed.
They entered the house. At its center a small fountain played. About its walls were low benches piled high with cushions.
“Oh!” Mary breathed, settling herself among the cushions. “Why must life go on and on when it could end itself in a blaze of glory right here?”
Her father laughed but made no reply.
For a long time they remained silent, gazing at the scene before them, bright flowers, gently swaying trees, dashing water, and beyond that, in sharp contrast, dull, brown, barren hills and grassless valleys.
“It’s like life,” Mary whispered. “Beautiful and gay, then somber and sad.”
However, it seemed that for the time their lives were to be filled with beauty, gayety and charm, for here was their jovial host and with him two black slaves bearing trays of fruit, cakes, and tea.
When the tea and cakes were gone, they sat for a time in silence, just resting and admiring the scene that lay beneath their feet.
“This is one time when I wish I could paint pictures,” Mary murmured at last.
“The charm of our little world here is its contrast,” said the host, pleased by her words. “Without the brown hills beyond, our gardens would not seem half as beautiful.”
Once again there was silence for a time. And then came the slaves bringing rice cooked with meat, a roast of mutton, bread, cheese, fruit and light, red wine.
“Ah! a feast!” the Colonel exclaimed.
“We have very little here in the hills,” his host apologized in true Eastern fashion.
“It is wonderful,” said Mary, “and more wonderful still to have time for enjoying it. Tomorrow, we shall be rushing through the air once more.”
“When there is a feast one forgets tomorrow,” said their host.
“It’s out of a Story Book,” Mary Whispered
“It’s out of a Story Book,” Mary Whispered
“It’s out of a Story Book,” Mary Whispered
But Mary could not forget. She thought of many things, the bag, the boy beachcomber she had left behind in South America, of the fine boys of the desert and Ramsey who had guarded her so well, and of the vanishing papyrus. “What of tomorrow?” she asked herself.
With one ear she was catching threads of a conversation.
“Yes, he is short and rather fat,” her father was saying, “rather pompous, a Dutchman or perhaps a German.”
“Yes, I think I know him,” was their host’s reply. “He says he is from Holland. He trades in cheap pottery and sometimes in toys. I think he is German. We shall catch up with that man, you and I.”
She knew they were speaking of the man who had taken her bag.
They were to “catch up with that man” sooner than she thought, not her father and their host, but her father and herself.
Night was falling as they rode back into the village. They were passing along a street lined on one side by low homes and on the other by a hill that sloped away from them, when they caught up with a vaguely familiar figure.
“It can’t be that I know him,” the girl thought. “He is wearing a long, Persian robe. I am acquainted with no Persians.”
The man turned to look back. Starting, she whispered: “There’s that man!”
They were abreast of him when, suddenly, the wind blew back his robe, giving them a moment’s glimpse at a flash of peculiar green.
Then it was that the Colonel did a strange thing. Apparently he kicked his donkey in the back of the forelegs, for, suddenly, he stumbled and fell to his knees. At the same time the Colonel went over sideways with a lunge that carried both him and the astonished pedestrian in a Persian robe, over the edge of the road and half way down the steep decline.
Expecting a struggle and perhaps shots, Mary sprang from her donkey.
There were no shots. Instead, in the half darkness she saw one shadowy figure go gliding down the hill while the other came struggling back up.
“Dad! Did you get it?” she whispered, greatly excited.
“If I hadn’t I would be going down, not up.” He was panting a little.
“Couldn’t you hold him?”
“Didn’t want to.”
“You didn’t want to!”
“You don’t know the laws of the Medes and Persians.” Her father laughed low. “They alter not and if we had him put in jail, you’d be here until Christmas as a witness.”
“Wise old dad.” She patted him on the back. “But see! Our donkeys are gone!”
“Let them go. I have paid for their use. They’ll find their own way home to their supper. We’ll catch a cab and get out to the airport at once.”
“Why?” The word was on the tip of her tongue but she did not say it.
Once they were safely stowed away in a cab he pulled the green-wrapped package from his pocket.
“Papyrus,” he said softly, “like our paper of today, has caused a lot of trouble in the world. Today a printing press rattles and bangs for an hour or two and not many weeks later two groups of men, one a band of thugs, the other a squad of officers, shoot it out for possession of that printing press’s work. And all because it says on each slip of paper, ‘Payable to the bearer on demand.’”
“But why would that man risk his life to get that roll of ancient papyrus?” Mary asked.
“That,” said her father, “appears to be something I must find out!”
“You or I?”
“You are practically out of it. We’re taking the roll to Sparky. He’ll hide it in his secret compartment for the night. When I fly back to Egypt tomorrow the roll will go with me.”
“Why?” Mary’s eyes opened wide.
“Hasn’t it caused you enough trouble?”
“Not if it’s really important.”
“It seems to be all of that.”
“Then why should I give it up now?” She was very much in earnest. “You know, in a very old book I sometimes read, it says something about putting your hand to the plow, then turning back. I don’t like turning back, or giving up. It’s part of my religion not to.”
“So that’s the way you feel about it?”
“Yes, but—” she hesitated, “one thing is more important than the papyrus.”
“Your ship’s cargo? I agree with you. It is all-important. Helping to get it through to China is the most important task you’ve ever undertaken, or perhaps ever will.”
“Will taking the papyrus make that harder?”
“I doubt that. Sparky will always be with the ship. It is true that somehow the enemy agents here have learned of the papyrus, and wanting it for, God knows what reason, have made a play for it. But will they carry this on even in India and China? I doubt that. When you hop off from here, you will be headed for quite another world.”
“Another world,” she repeated the words softly. “That sounds strange and, and rather frightening. But, unless you seriously object, the papyrus goes with Sparky and me to that other world.”
“Then that’s settled,” he agreed.
And now, here they were at the airport.
“Well! For once!” Mary exclaimed as they came up to the plane. “Here’s Sparky. And he’s not working on the engines. What’s the matter, Sparky? Are you sick?”
“No—” he drawled. “Couldn’t think of a thing that needed doing, so I’ve just been reading a book about Persia. Quite a place I’d say.”
“We’ll watch the ship while you look the city over,” the Colonel volunteered.
“Oh, no, thanks all the same.” Sparky’s sun-bronzed face crinkled into a smile. “I’m turning in—sleep on the job, you know—in a few minutes. We’ll take off at dawn. You’ll be here, Mary?”
“Yep. Johnny-on-the-spot. And, Sparky, since you’re guarding the ship, here’s one more little thing you can keep an eye on. Put it in our hiding-place.”
“Oh! Sure! What is it?”
“Just a bunch of old papers.” It was the Colonel who replied.
“Very old,” Mary grinned.
“Oh, yes, I remember, that old Arab’s stuff,” Sparky yawned. “Lot of trouble for very little, I’d say.”
“Yes,” Mary agreed. “A whole lot of trouble.” She laughed, and Sparky wondered why.
When Mary and her father re-entered their rooms at the hotel a half-hour later, things seemed a little strange.
“I left that bag on that low bench,” Mary recalled. “Now it’s standing beside the bench. What’s more, it doesn’t look quite the same.”
Picking it up, she turned it on its side, placed it on the bench, then threw back the snaps. Up came the lid.
“Dad!” she exclaimed, “it’s my bag! The things are all there, even a candy bar I bought at the U.S.O. in Egypt.”
“Very kind of our Nazi friends to return it. Probably came in through the window.” He wandered about testing the catches. “That’s right,” he called at last. “The window in my sleeping room is unlocked.”
“Lock it, please,” said Mary. “I—I’m feeling a little strange.”
“You’ll be all right when the windows are locked and the shades down.” And she was.
“Dad,” she said, after a few moments of quiet thought. “Perhaps that other bag belonged to the woman in black.”
“The woman in black?”
“Yes. Don’t you remember? The one who seemed to be working with the Jap spy who posed as an Arab.”
“She was in West Africa.”
“Yes, of course, and then I’ll never be sure that the French woman at the port and the Arab woman at the secret oasis were the same person.”
“You’ll probably never know that,” was his reply. “However, it would be my guess that they were two different people and, if there is really a woman mixed up in this affair of the papyrus, that she is still another. In this country and in Africa where spies are common, it is not difficult to maintain a regular fraternity of lady spies. To pass on a message from spy to spy is easy but for one spy to travel by plane from place to place in territory controlled by our friends is practically impossible. At any rate your bag is back and so is the papyrus and that, for the moment, is all that matters. And I’m surely going to see you safely off in the morning.”
In spite of the mysterious events of the day, and her strange surroundings, Mary slept well that night. Why not? Was not her father close at hand? Had he not been with her during the greater part of her life? And had she not always felt secure when he was near?
She awoke an hour before dawn to wish with all her soul that he was going with them all the way to the very end. But this, she knew, was impossible. He had stretched a point coming this far. His work was in Egypt, keeping the airways clear. He must turn back.
She bounded out of bed and, a half hour later, sprang from their car to greet the cold, gray dawn.
“Sunshine, fountains, flowers, and now this. All a part of life,” she thought with a shudder.
After switching on the plane’s lights she crowded her way back through the cabin. She examined each well-bound package with care, counted them and then, in one fleeting thought, asked herself what their contents might be. For the time, the roll of papyrus was forgotten. Only one thing mattered now—their cargo.
Finding everything ship-shape she worked her way back to the cabin door to stand there polishing her glasses.
Suddenly she found herself staring at the square of white with which the polishing was being done.
“That’s not my handkerchief,” she exclaimed. “It has embroidery in the corners, a date palm in one corner and a flying bird in the other.”
“You must have picked it up somewhere,” her father suggested.
Digging into her purse for her own handkerchief, she pulled out one more of the same pattern.
“This,” she exclaimed, “is getting funny.” Then: “Oh! I remember. There was that strange bag last night, you know? I needed a handkerchief. My bag was gone.”
“So you took those, and you have them still. Well, you got something out of that adventure,” he laughed good-naturedly.
They were up and away at dawn. As the sun rose over the gray hills, painting them with a golden light, it seemed to Mary that now nothing could hinder them from reaching their distant goal in far-away China.
Two days later, weary, bleary-eyed, but happy, she found herself looking down on the rooftops and strange towers of a great city. Like a broad ribbon a river divided the city into two parts while, far away, glimmering in the sun, lay the ocean.
“This,” Sparky’s voice was hoarse with emotion, “this is the heart of India.”
As usual, they passed over the city to drop down upon a secluded airport all but hidden by tropical trees.
They had made an overnight stop just within the border of India. From that airport they had radioed the probable hour of arrival. Mary was surprised to see a small crowd of people race on the field as their plane came to a stop.
When, at last, she stood in the doorway of the plane, blinking from the bright sun, there came a loud roar of applause which fairly set her back on her feet.
“What is it?” She turned to Sparky. “They must think we’re a big league baseball team or something.”
“There are a lot of Americans here,” he explained. “That’s including the soldiers. You’re the first lady member of the Ferry Command that’s ever showed up here.”
“Ray! Ray! Ray! for the lady pilot,” a soldier shouted.
“Hurrah! Hurrah!” came roaring back.
Mary said never a word, just stood there, blinking in the sun.
Then an attractive young lady came up close. “I’m Judy Pierce from the big school for girls here. I heard you were to arrive and I wish you would be my guest while you’re here.”
“That would be just fine—I—I—guess. How about it and how long?” Mary asked Sparky.
“Ought to be swell. How long? That I can’t tell.”
“This is a city,” Judy Pierce said. “We have phones and everything. We can keep in touch with you at the airport.”
“That will be quite all right,” Sparky agreed.
“Speech! We want a speech!” some boy from Kansas, Iowa, or Oklahoma shouted.
“Speech! Speech! Speech!” came in a chorus.
“I can’t make a speech,” Mary’s voice carried across the field. “All I can do is to fly a plane, and I don’t know too much about that. But it does make me feel as if I had gone round the world and got back home to see you all here. I know now, as I never knew before, that the sun never really sets on the Army of the U.S.A.”
“I’m Judy Pierce,” Said an Attractive Young Lady
“I’m Judy Pierce,” Said an Attractive Young Lady
“I’m Judy Pierce,” Said an Attractive Young Lady
There came one more roar of applause during which Mary leaned over to say to her new-found friend: “I’ll be ready in just a little while.”
“That’s fine,” Judy smiled. “I have my small car. We’ll be in the city before you know it.”
“Oh! A car!” Mary exclaimed. “Then I must be back home.”
At that she dodged back into the plane. There she came upon Sparky waving two envelopes in the air.
“Sealed orders,” he whispered hoarsely. “One is to be opened here. That’s got to be done before you go.”
“Oh!” Mary breathed. “Now we’ll know!”
“Not all of it,” Sparky warned. “Only part, and the least exciting part is my guess.”
They crowded back into a dark corner of the plane, then shoulder to shoulder, heads close together, read the note that came from the wax-sealed envelope.
“The boxes marked (C),” they read, “are to be trans-shipped to the Burma front. They contain quinine and should be guarded with the greatest care.”
“Quinine!” Mary dropped down upon a case marked (C). “Is that what we’re risking our lives to defend! Every drug-store has quinine!”
“Not any more,” said Sparky. “The supply in those cases came from thousands of druggists in the U.S.A. They donated it to the men who are fighting in the mosquito plagued swamps of Burma.
“And don’t you think it doesn’t matter.” He shook a finger. “At our last landing I saw a man who came from those swamps. He was being sent home. They thought he might live. But you should have seen him! Oh, no! You shouldn’t. It was terrible to see a skeleton that’s still alive. Malaria did it. Quinine would have stopped it. Those dirty little Japs have all the quinine trees in the world and that’s one way they hope to win the world. That’s how they fight!”
“Oh! Sparky!” Her voice was hoarse. “You’re always wonderful. If that was all we came for it’s enough—”
“But it’s not. It’s only the beginning. There are the boxes marked (D). We won’t know what’s in them until we are at the foot of the Himalaya Mountains.”
“And then—”
“That, we hope, will be the beginning of the end.”
“Sparky,” her voice was tense, “I’d like to take that quinine to Burma.”
“You can’t, not in our ship. This ship goes straight through to China.”
“I’d like to see those fighting boys. That—well, that would be sort of a reward.”
“I might be able to fix it,” he conceded. “Anyway, I’ll try. Now you run along and have a good time with your new friends. You’ve got it coming.”
“My best times always come in the hardest places.” She was still thinking of Burma. For all that she left the plane to join Judy Pierce in her bright little sport car.
“It would really be a shame to pass right through India without seeing any of it,” Judy said as they slid smoothly over a paved street.
“Yes, I suppose so,” Mary agreed. “But business is business. We haven’t much time. I must always be in touch with Sparky.”
“We’ll arrange it that way,” Judy promised. “We’ll not be away from the phone more than an hour at any time.”
“That will be swell. You see, we have part of a ship load of quinine.”
“Quinine!” Judy exclaimed.
“It’s for Burma.”
“Oh! You are a public benefactor! What a wonderful privilege, to fly half way round the world to bring health back to hundreds of our boys!”
“It has its drawbacks,” Mary spoke slowly.
“How do you mean?”
“Let me tell you later. Just now I’d like to sit back and enjoy the sights.”
“Do that. I’ll say never a word.”
For a full half hour after that they wound in and out, from one gorgeous scene to another in a world’s paradise. Beautiful residences set back among tropical trees, little gardens where oranges and lemons clung to branches like spheres of gold, narrow arched bridges over which they glided—all these delighted Mary’s eyes.
The people were strange. Some were faultlessly dressed Europeans, some dark-robed Mohammedans, and some the slender, olive-complexioned Hindus. But all, even the children, seemed bright, well-fed, and gay.
“Why this is a golden paradise!” Mary exclaimed. “I never dreamed that India could be like this!”
“It can’t,” said Judy. “Not all of it. In America there are two sides of the railroad track. In India there are the two sides to the river. This is the bright side. I’ll show you the other side after tea. You need to see that at dusk.
“We’ll have to be getting back,” said Judy. “There may be a phone call from that man Sparky. It must be great traveling with a man like Sparky.”
“Oh, it is!”
“You must have lots of fun together.”
“We do, on the job.”
“And the rest of the time?”
“The rest of the time he’s too busy taking care of his engines.”
“So he sends you off alone to have all the fun,” Judy laughed. “But when you’ve reached the journey’s end—”
“Will we have fun!” Mary grinned.
“Well, here we are,” Judy swung the car into a drive before a stately brick building. “This is the school. Classes are over and all the teachers are waiting to have tea with you.”
They walked up the broad path that lay between two rows of stately palms. Judy led Mary to her own room, that she might wash and brush up, then hurried away to ask about a phone call.
“No call yet,” she said, as she returned.
“Listen!” Mary held up a hand. From the sky came a thunder of sound.
“Big planes, a lot of them! Come on!” Seizing Judy’s hand, Mary dragged her outside.
There, looking up, they saw a large formation of heavy bombers. All but breathless, Mary began to count. “Thirty-six, thirty-seven, thirty-eight,” she ended. “Judy! That’s the flight Sparky and I started out with. We’re going to have company over the mountains!”
“And you’re going to need it,” Judy said soberly.
Had Mary consulted her own wishes, she would have hurried away to the airport, but courtesy decreed that she remain at Judy’s tea, so Judy’s tea it was, and not so bad after all.
There were twenty-three teachers in the group waiting to welcome Mary on the large, cool porch of the teachers’ home. Some had gray hair and some, like Judy, were young. One and all they were eager to know more about the war and the lands they had left behind.
When tea had been served and they had chatted informally for a short time, they led Mary to a large, easy chair, and bolstered her up with cushions.
“Now,” said the dean, “you are our queen. We each and every one of us demand an audience.”
“A queen for an hour,” Mary laughed. “What is it you wish to know and what is your supplication?”
“Tell me,” said a girl with glorious red hair, “I have done some flying, oh! quite a bit. How may I become a WAF and go flying around the world?”
“You probably can’t,” was the disturbing reply. “I, it seems, am a person of special privilege or, perhaps you might say, with a dark curse upon my head. At least, until now, I am the only member of our band who has turned into a world traveler.
“But if you are extremely serious—,” she added.
“Oh! I am!”
“Yes, I also,” came from another corner.
“And I,” came again.
“In that case,” said Mary, “all you have to do is to get back to America.”
“Very simple!”
“Just a little hop.”
“Yes,” Mary agreed, “but whether I will make it, or how, I don’t really know.”
“When you are in America,” she went on, “make sure you have five hundred hours of flying to your credit, then step right in. There are rather rigid examinations. After that you go through four weeks of tireless basic training, learning how to be a soldier and all that.”
“And then you get your wings?” the red head suggested.
“You might call it that. After that you fly and fly and fly, delivering all manner of planes to all sorts of places all over U.S.A.
“And then,” Mary drew a long breath, “if you’ve been a good girl and if the gods are kind, you get a trip round the world, practically free.”
“Tell us about this marvelous trip,” another girl said.
Mary allowed herself a fleeting thought of all the grand boys of the bombing flight waiting at the airport, then launched herself into the bright, hilarious, sober, breath-taking story of her journey. The crackup in the Brazilian jungle, the beachcomber of Brazil, the Jap spy, the Woman in Black, the battle over the desert with Burt Ramsey as hero, the missing traveling bag of Persia were all there.
“Oh! That’s how it is!” the red head gasped when Mary had finished.
“No,” Mary laughed. “That’s how it was. Once we have delivered our plane and cargo, I suspect that we shall drift back to America on flowery beds of ease and with never an adventure.”
As she left the cool shade of that porch, Mary was thinking of just two things, her reunion with the men of the big bomber flight and their plans for the immediate future.
One thing surprised her. When they had entered the school an hour before, the sun had been shining brightly. Now it was raining hard.
“What a change!” she exclaimed as she and Judy raced for the car.
“It’s the start of the rainy season,” Judy explained, once they were inside the car, gliding along. “When it starts it keeps right on. It’s too bad you didn’t arrive a week sooner.”
“Why?”
“At this season of the year terrible storms sweep over the Himalaya Mountains. You’ve got to cross them, you know.”
“Is it very dangerous?”
“They say it’s one of the most dangerous passes in the world. Once a flight of five planes with Chinese pilots started over the pass. Not one of them was ever heard of again.
“But then,” Judy hastened to add, “those were small planes. You’ve got a real ship.”
“Yes,” Mary thought, “we’ve got a real ship.” For all that, she could not help recalling the many times “real ships,” big passenger planes, had crashed against the stone wall of the Rockies.
“The Himalayas are much higher than the Rockies,” she said.
“Oh, much higher! One peak has never been scaled. It’s been tried time and again. Many a poor climber is buried beneath their snows.”
Mary scarcely heard this last remark for the airport loomed just ahead.
Having bidden Judy good-by with a promise to join her again in an hour, she found herself in the midst of a veritable mob of U.S. airmen, who, in their joy at seeing her, threatened to wreck her precious flying hands, squeezed the life out of her and talked her deaf and dumb, all in the same five minutes.
After that, order was restored and they led her to a back room. There they set her on a stool to join her in a toast to the god of the Himalayas and the future, drunk with honest-to-goodness American coffee.
By the time she managed to drag Sparky into a corner for a private conference, she was quite out of breath.
She Cornered Sparky for a Private Conference
She Cornered Sparky for a Private Conference
She Cornered Sparky for a Private Conference
“Sparky,” she spoke in a low tone, “as the crooks would say, ‘what’s the lay?’”
“We’ll be here for at least another day.” Sparky’s brow wrinkled. “I don’t like it. The rainy season is here. Every day it will get worse. We’ve made it this far alone and, considering the circumstances, got on pretty swell.”
“Sure we have, Sparky—just wonderful.”
“But orders are orders,” Sparky sighed. “We’re to go over with the rest of the flight.”
“That’s so they’ll pull us off a mountain peak in case we get stuck,” Mary suggested.
“Something like that. That’s the toughest bit of flying in the whole trip, so everything has to be a little more than all right. Our ship is ready to go right now.”
“Thanks to Sparky’s endless hours of toil.”
Sparky grinned. “Have it any way you like. The other planes are not ready, won’t be for a day, sooo—”
“What about the quinine?” Mary asked eagerly.
“I wanted to talk to you about that. There’s time to get over to the Burma line and back before we start.”
“Oh! Sparky!” Her eyes shone.
“But not with our plane,” he went on. “It’s too risky. The balance of our cargo is the most important part. Our ship must be in first class shape for that last lap.”
“But can’t we borrow a smaller plane for the Burma trip?”
“Well, we might,” Sparky spoke slowly. “Thing is, I hate to leave our ship and its cargo for a single hour. You know all the things that have happened.”
“Yes, Sparky, I know.” Her voice was husky.
“We’ve had a lot of luck, Mary.” He hesitated. “Tell you what, you show up here just before dawn tomorrow and we’ll see what can be cooked up.”
“I’ll be here, Sparky. And now look! There’s my car waiting for me.”
“You’ve made some swell friends.”
“I sure have. See you in the morning.” She went racing away.
“You look tired,” said Judy when they were once again headed for the school. “How would you like to take a nap in my room for a couple of hours?”
“That will be just swell,” said Mary.
“By that time it will be early twilight, just the right time to visit the other side of the river.”
“Oh, yes, the other side of the river.”
“It’s quite different, I assure you. When I am in a strange little world I’ve never seen before, I like to see it all, not just part of it.”
“Oh, so do I.”
“Well, this time you’ll not see it all. No one has ever seen all of India, but you can see the other side of the river.”
They arrived at the school and soon, with the shades drawn and door locked, Mary was drifting off to the land of dreams.
When she was awakened, it seemed she had just fallen asleep, but a dash of cold water on her face and a demitasse of very black coffee brought her back to life.
“We’ll do the other side,” said Judy. “We’ll not take too long for it. Then we’ll dine in one of those strange, little restaurants. You may not like the food but you’ll like the setting. The fruit is always good and the tea—um!—such tea as you have never before tasted.”
“Sounds all right.”
“And after that—”
“After that I’d like to run over to the airport for just a moment. Won’t take long. Want to check on some things.” Down deep in her heart Mary was hoping that Sparky would have things all fixed for her trip to Burma with the quinine. She really had her heart set on that trip. To visit a real battlefield, to see the men who for months had been fighting in mud and blood for victory.
That would be like visiting another world, something she’d never forget. And to be able to tell some of them that she had done a little, just a very little, to bring them new health and happiness. Ah! That surely would bring a thrill.
She and Judy were crossing the bridge as she thought all this. Arriving on the other side, she was surprised and shocked. Here, it is true, were the same grand, old palms, the sweeping drive and all that. But the people and their homes! Here were dirt, squalor, ragged children, slinking dogs, and shaggy monkeys staring down at her from the trees.
“Why don’t they kill the monkeys?” she asked. “Then there would be more for the people to eat.”
“Oh! You can’t do that! If you killed just one monkey you’d be mobbed.” Judy was shocked.
“In goodness name! Why?”
“The monkeys are sacred. Religion is a potent force to these people. But don’t let’s get started on that. Come on. Let’s go.” Judy hurried on.
Each filled with her own, long thoughts they wandered on and on. As the shadows darkened, the streets narrowed. At last they were in the very heart of the city.
“Look!” Mary whispered, suddenly gripping Judy’s arm. “See that tall woman in the black dress?”
“Yes, a Moslem.”
The woman was moving across an open space where the afterglow of the sun brought her out in bold relief.
“Does she—would you say there was anything unusual about her?” These words were said by Mary in so tense a whisper that Judy turned to look at her.
“Why, yes,” she replied slowly, “she is strange. I should say that she doesn’t belong here at all.”
“How could you know that?” Mary asked in a startled voice.
“I teach art and I paint quite a bit. You know an artist, a really good one, makes you conscious of a beautiful figure, even though it is loaded down with robes. It’s the way you sit and stand and move. That woman does not belong here. I’ve never seen anyone like her. There is a spring in her step. Her body is like a tight wire. I’d hate to meet her in the dark. I—”
Just then, as if conscious of the fact that she was being talked about, the woman turned and looked back.
As if startled, she quickened her pace.
To say that Mary was startled and alarmed would be to put it very mildly. She was not dreaming that, here in India, she had come across the Woman in Black, and yet this woman did seem to have something in common with her. It was strange.
“Come on!” she whispered. “I want to see—” She did not finish. What did she want to see? Perhaps she did not know.
She saw sooner than she wished. The woman had turned a corner. As they appeared, rounding that same corner, she made a sudden movement. Something bright gleamed in her hand. In the nick of time Mary dropped flat. There was a flash, and a report, then a scream.
Neither Mary nor Judy had screamed, though Judy would have done so had she not lost her voice. It was that woman who had screamed. Little wonder, for a white man darting from a corner had knocked the gun from her hand, then had made a grab for her.
Quicker than any cat, she bent low to escape his grasp, then vanished into a dark and narrow street.
After bending over to pick up the woman’s pistol, the man walked toward the girls in long strides.
“She almost got you that time, miss,” he spoke gruffly. “Now, what would nice girls like you be doing in such a place as this? And one of you in uniform!”
“Say!” His tone changed. “You don’t happen to be the young lady who helped bring that quinine from America?”
“That’s who I am,” Mary admitted.
“Say! You’re a real hero! Shake!” He gripped her hand until it hurt.
“Here,” he said, “take this gun. You may need it.” He held out the pistol.
Mary dropped it into her pocket.
“What’d she shoot at you for?” he demanded.
“It’s a long story.” Mary hesitated. “At least I think it is.”
“Oh! It is? Then let’s get out of here. She might come back.”
With long, swinging strides he led the way out of the narrow labyrinth of streets.
“What wereYOUdoing back there?” Mary asked, as they neared the river.
“Me?” He laughed hoarsely. “That’s a good one. Me, I’m a Flying Tiger. Nobody ever touches a Flying Tiger. They don’t dare!”
“A Flying Tiger!” Mary was thrilled. Judy nodded her confirmation. Then she whispered: “That’s what he is and one of the best!”
“You’d be honorin’ me if you’d have a bite to eat with me,” said Mary’s new-found friend. “Both of you. I’m Scottie Burns and I’m with an American squadron now.”
“It will be a pleasure,” Mary said. “And I’m sure—”
“Yes, yes,” Judy hastened to add. “It will be a real joy.”
“And will you name the place?” Scottie begged. “I’m not so well acquainted here.”
Judy led them to a quiet place run by a native Indian chef, who had spent several years in America and who knew how to prepare Indian food as Americans liked it.
It was a jolly and delightful occasion. After some urging Scottie told with laughter and tears of his experiences with the Flying Tigers.