“Who would be willing to do that?” I asked. “Who would have a car that they’d be willing to smash up and can also keep a secret because she will have to be in on it?”

“I’ve been thinking all night about it,” said Old Tom. “And I believe I have the answer. Miss Macy!”

And then we both jumped a foot in the air because just as he said Miss Macy, she appeared, suddenly bursting through the bushes like a vision in khaki.

“OH!” she cried. “I thought you were a bear!”

“Shhh!” said Old Tom. “The place is crawling with soldiers.”

“Well, why shouldn’t it be?” asked Miss Macy in her usual loud and cheerful tones.

But before we could answer, we heard it. We heard it, the sound of a plane engine overhead. I was almost afraid to look up for fear that it would be some other plane, maybe sent to scout for the enemy spies, but Old Tom grabbed me, pointing upward at the plane making its way down to land on the water, and began to run.

“Oh no!” I cried, because I saw from far away down the coast the sentinel who stood posted atop the cliff point start to run, too. “The sentinel has spotted it!”

“Come on, Franny! Hurry, we must get to him before the soldiers do!”

Gladys Steals a Car

GLADYS STEALS A CAR

Old Tom, Miss Macy, and I ran like furies. By the time we reached the cabin, the plane was down, floating on the water. The hermit had landed it in the cove, close enough in that no one who wasn’t between the two points of land forming it could see it sinking, but far enough out that it would sink completely underwater. It was a brilliant place to put it, and we could only hope that there were no soldiers in the cove when it went down. The beauty of its landing, which we missed, would have been wasted on us probably, because, as I have said, so much of experience is wasted because our emotions are all in the way.

As we got there, it was going down fast. We saw the hermit, perched on the wing; then he dove and we saw nothing for the longest time except the plane going under, creating a swirl of water around it. The ocean wasn’t unusually rough, but there are always waves and we could see rips, so we watched frantically for the hermit’s head to appear. When it did, I grabbed Old Tom.

“He’s too far out!” I said frantically. “He’s being pulled by a rip.”

“Give him a chance,” said Old Tom tensely. “See if he can swim across it.”

We watched, biting our lips, as the hermit made his way across the rip, swimming as he ought, not fighting it, but we could see he was making no headway.