only extras they wear are parachutes. Mrs. Lindbergh has never had to use one of these life preservers of the air, but the Colonel has four times qualified for the mythical Caterpillar Club whose membership consists solely of individuals who have made an emergency jump.
About baggage. When I flew out to California that time (there have been many transcontinental crossings since), my secretary was with me. We took much work with us, planning to conduct an itinerant office as we went. Coming from the cold of the wintry east to the summer of California with six weeks before us, we naturally had a good deal of baggage. Actually with parachutes and emergency rations, I think the indecent total was thirteen pieces.
When we left for the return journey, Colonel Lindbergh saw this mountain of baggage piled high in the car.
“And what might that be?” he asked disapprovingly.
During our explanation, I sensed he was making a comparison with the impedimenta of a typical Lindbergh journey.
He turned to his wife with a grin. “Don’t you get any foolish ideas from this,” he admonished.
But I had a large plane in which I could easily carry half a ton so I didn’t feel so guilty of violating any air tradition as I might.
In passing, I should like to say that pluck seems to me to be one of Mrs. Lindbergh’s most dominant
