The swarms of natives, tourists, and summer people had wisely distributed themselves between the beaches, the glass-bottomed boats, the Aviary, and their hotel rooms, leaving only a blistering Main Street, a solitary red bus, and an angular and determined lady who engaged the driver of that bus in animated argument. “Two dollars is the price for a trip to the airport, lady,” insisted the plump driver. “Unless you want to wait until four-thirty for the regular run.” Miss Hildegarde Withers was most emphatically opposed to waiting. Neither did she want to pay two dollars for a two-mile trip for which a taxicab in her own Manhattan would have charged fifty cents. But there were only half a dozen motor vehicles in all Catalina, and this was the only one for hire. “I’ll give you a dollar,” bargained that canny lady. But the plump young man in blue overalls shook his head and returned to his studious perusal of yesterday’s newspaper. It was evident that he would just as soon stay where he was.
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