The young man who did not move, however, had been a model passenger, hardly seen and seldom heard, and obediently keeping his seat belt fastened during the turbulence. Perhaps that was why he had been overlooked. Two stewardesses, coming from the front of the aircraft, neat-looking, nice-looking, picking up some odds and ends of equipment and magazines from the seats, saw him at the same moment.

“For heavens sakes,” exclaimed one, a brunette. “Some people can sleep through an earthquake,” remarked the other, who was a vivid blonde.

The brunette leaned across and touched the young man’s arm.

“Excuse me,” she said, “but we’re in New York.” The young man did not respond in any way.

“Sir, we’re in New York.” The girl’s voice rose. “We’re at Kennedy!” called the fair one, as if that announcement was enough to awaken the dead.

Still the young man did not stir.

“Betty —” the dark-haired girl began.

“Pauline —” began the other.

“You don’t think —”

“He can’t be!”

Suddenly, these two young women, used to every conceivable emergency in the air, were alarmed. The fair-haired one, also the prettier, went behind the passenger, gripped his shoulders and shook him, but had no effect at all.

“Wake up!” she cried in desperation.

At the front exit two or three men and another stewardess had gathered, laughing and joking as crews often do at the end of a flight. One man, tall, good-looking, peaked cap on the back of his head, noticed the two stewardesses’ concern and came along the gangway towards them. He was the captain, and technically responsible for what happened until the machine was handed over to the maintenance men for its check.

“Hi, there,” he called, half-way from the exit to the girls. “What’s going on?”

One girl turned to look at him, the other had only to raise her head. The dark-haired one answered.