"Who are you?" she asked, and Will laughed with delight.

"I reckon you'll be Miss Vanderman?' suggested Fred in outrageous
Yankee accent. She stared hard at him.

"I am Miss Vanderman. Who are you, please.

I sat down on the great stone they had rolled over the trap, for
even in that flickering, smoky light I could see that this young
woman was incarnate loveliness as well as health and strength. Will
was our only ladies' man (for Fred is no more than random troubadour,
decamping before any love-affair gets serious). The thought conjured
visions of Maga, and what she might do. For about ten seconds my
head swam, and I could hardly keep my feet.

Will left the opening bars of the overture to Fred, with rather the
air of a man who lets a trout have line. And Fred blundered
in contentedly.

"I'll allow my name is Oakes--Fred Oakes," he said.

"Please explain!" She looked from one to the other of us.

"We three are American towerists, going the grand trip." (Remember,
a score of Armenians were listening. Fred's intention was at least
as much to continue their contentment as to extract humor from the
situation.) "You being reported missing we allowed to pick you up
and run you in to Tarsus. Air you agreeable?"