Part 21 (1/2)

One second his eyes roved about the place; the next his lips parted as something b.u.mped against his foot.

Stooping, he lifted up a long affair the size and shape of a round cedar fencepost. It was this he had brought aboard just before sailing. It had been shaken down and had been rolling about the floor.

Having examined its wrapping carefully, he shook it once or twice.

”Guess you're all right,” he muttered. ”And you had better be! A whole lot depends on you in a pinch.”

His eyes roved about the room. At length, s.n.a.t.c.hing a blanket from his berth, he tore it into strips. Then, throwing back his mattress, he placed the postlike affair beneath it and lashed it firmly to the springs.

”There!” he exclaimed with much satisfaction, ”you'll be safe until needed, if you _are_ needed, and--and you never can tell.”

The end of the seaplane's last flirt with death and destruction came suddenly and without warning. Overcome as he was by constant watching, dead for sleep and famished for food, Vincent Ardmore had all but fallen asleep in his seat on the fuselage when a hoa.r.s.e snort from one of the motors, followed quickly by a rattling grate from the other, startled him into complete wakefulness.

The silence which followed these strange noises was appalling. It was like the lull before a hurricane.

”Gas is gone,” said Alfred. There was fear and defiance in his tone, defiance of Nature which he believed had treated him badly ”Have to go down now.”

”Go down!” Vincent s.h.i.+vered at the thought. Go down to what?

He glanced below, then a ray of hope lighted his face. The storm was pa.s.sing--had all but pa.s.sed. The clouds beneath them were no longer densely black. A mere mist, they hung like a veil over the sea.

”But the water?” His heart sank. ”It will still be raging.”

The storm had not so far pa.s.sed as he at first thought. The plane cut a circling path as she descended. Her wings were broad; her drop was gradual. As they entered the first layer of clouds, she gave a lurch forward, but with wonderful control the young pilot righted her. Seconds pa.s.sed, then again she tipped, this time more perilously. But again she was righted. Now she was caught in a little flurry of wind that set her spinning. A nose-dive seemed inevitable, but once more she came to position. Now, as they neared the surface of the sea, a wild, racing wind, the tail of the storm, seized them and hurled them headlong before it. In its grasp, there was no longer thought of control. The only question now was how they would strike the water and when. The very rush of the wind tore the breath from Vincent's lungs. Crushed back against the fuselage, he awaited the end. Once, twice, three times they turned over in a mad whirl. Then, with a sudden rending crash and a wild burst of spray, they struck.

The plane had gone down on one wing. For a second she hung suspended there. Vincent caught his breath. If she went one way there was a chance; if the other, there was none. He thought of loosening his straps, but did not. So he hung there. Came a sudden crash. The right motor had torn from its las.h.i.+ngs and plunged into the sea.

The next second the plane settled to the left. Saved for a moment, the boy drew a deep breath. A second crash and the remaining motor was gone.

During this crash the boy was completely submerged, but the buoyant plane brought him up again. Then, for a moment, he was free to think, to look about him. Instinctively his eyes sought the place where his companion had been seated. It was empty. Alfred was gone.

Covering his eyes with his hands, he tried to tell himself it was not true. Then, suddenly uncovering them, he searched the surface of the troubled sea. Once he fancied he caught a glimpse of a white hand above a wave. He could not be sure; it might have been a speck of foam. Only one thing he could be sure of; his throbbing brain told it to him over and over: Alfred Brightwood, his friend, was gone--gone forever. The sea had swallowed him up.

CHAPTER XXI

THE BOATS ARE GONE

When Curlie Carson had fastened the mysterious post-shaped affair to the springs of his berth, he fought his way against wind, waves and darkness back to the radiophone cabin.

”Anything come in?” he asked as he shook the dampness from his clothing.

”Nothing I could make out,” shouted Joe. ”Got something all jumbled up with static once but couldn't make it out.” Rising, he took the receiver from his head and handed it to Curlie. Then, as the craft took a sudden plunge, he leaped for a seat. Missing it, he went sprawling upon the floor.

In spite of the seriousness of their dilemma, the girl let forth a joyous peal of laughter. Joe's antics as he attempted to rise were too ridiculous for words.

There was tonic for all of them in that laugh. They felt better because of it.