"Slow business," he murmured. "Maybe it won't work when I get through.

Maybe too damp. Maybe it--"

Suddenly he found himself floating in air, like the tail of a kite. Only the strap and his viselike grip saved him. The plane had struck another pocket.

He was at last thrown back upon the platform with such force as dashed the air from his lungs and a large part of his senses from his brain.

After a moment of mental struggle he resumed his task. He worked feverishly now. The fear that he might be seriously injured before he had completed it had seized him.

"Now," he breathed at last, "now we'll see!"

His hand touched a switch. The motor buzzed.

"Ah! She works! She works!" he exulted.

Then with trembling fingers he sent out the signal of distress. He followed this with their location, also in code. Three times he repeated the message. Then snapping on his receiver, he strained his ear to listen.

"Ah!--" his lips parted. He was getting something. Was it an answer? He could scarcely believe his ears. Yet it came distinctly:

"Yacht _Kittlewake_, Curlie--"

Just at that moment the plane gave a sickening swerve. Caught off his balance, the boy was thrown clear off the platform. The receiver connection snapped. He hung suspended by the single strap. Madly his hands flew out to grasp at the pitching rods. Just in time he seized them; the strap had broken.

With the agility of a squirrel he let himself down to his old place behind his companion. To buckle on the remaining straps was the work of a moment. Then, in utter exhaustion and despair, he allowed his head to sink upon his chest.

"And I was getting--getting an answer," he gasped.

His companion had seen nothing of his fall. Glancing behind him for a second, he saw Vincent in his seat in the fuselage.

"What'd you come down for?"

"Got shaken down."

"Get anything?"

"Was getting. Queer thing that! Got the name of my father's yacht and the word 'Curly.' Then the plane lurched and spilled me off. Jerked the receiver off too. Queer about that message! Thought I saw the _Kittlewake_ on the sea a while ago, but then I thought it couldn't be--thought I was getting delirious or something."

"Going back up?"

"I--I'll--In a moment or two I'll try."

A few moments later he did try, but it was no use. His nerve was gone.

His knees trembled so he could scarcely stand. His hands shook as with the palsy. It is a terrible thing for a climber to lose his nerve while in the air.

"No use," he told himself. "I'd only get shaken off again and next time I'd be out of luck. Shame too, just when I was getting things."

Again he caught his companion's call.

"Storm's almost here! Guess we'll have to climb."

Even as he spoke, there came a flash of lightning which revealed a solid black bank of clouds which seemed a wall of ebony. It was moving rapidly toward them; was all but upon them.

"Better climb; climb quick," he breathed through the tube.

CHAPTER XIX

THE MAP'S SECRET

While all these things were happening to the boys on the seaplane, Curlie Carson and Joe Marion were working hard to repair the damage done to their radiophone set by the lightning. With the boat pitching about as it was, and with the wind and waves keeping up a constant din, it was a difficult task.

Just what coils and instruments had been burned out it was difficult to tell. All these must be tested out by the aid of a storage battery. When the defective parts had been discarded, it was necessary to piece together, out of the remaining parts and the extra equipment, an entirely new set.

"Have to use a two-stage amplifier," shouted Curlie, making himself heard above the storm.

"Lower voltage on the grid, too," Joe shouted back.

"Guess it'll be fairly good, though," said Curlie, working feverishly.

"Only hope it didn't burn out the insulation on our aerials. Want to get her going again quick. Want to bad. Lot may depend on that."

The insulation on the aerials was not burned out. After many minutes of nerve-racking labor they had the equipment together again and were ready to listen in.

Curlie flashed a short message in code, giving the name of their boat and its present location, then, with the receiver tightly clamped over his ears, he settled back in his chair.

For some time they sat there in silence, the two boys and Gladys Ardmore.

The beat of the waves was increasing. The wind was still rising, but as yet no rain was falling.

"Queer storm," shouted Joe. "Haven't gotten into it yet. Will though and it's going to be bad. Skipper says the only thing we can do is to fasten down all the hatches and hold her nose to the storm."

"Better see about the hatches," shouted Curlie.

Throwing open the door, letting in a dash of salt spray and a cold rush of wind as he did so, Joe disappeared into the dark.

Curlie and the girl were alone. The seat the girl occupied was clamped solidly to the wall. It had broad, strong arms and to these she clung.

She was staring at the floor and seemed half asleep.

When Joe disappeared, Curlie once more became conscious of her presence and at once he was disturbed. Who would not have been disturbed at the thought of a delicate girl, accustomed to every luxury, being thrown into such desperate circ.u.mstances as they were in at the present moment.

"Not my fault," he grumbled to himself. "I didn't want her to go.

Wouldn't have allowed her, either, had I known about it."

"Not your fault?" his inner self chided him. "Suppose you didn't plan this trip?"

"Well, anyway," he grumbled, "she needn't have come along, and, besides, circ.u.mstances have justified my theories. They are out here somewhere, those two boys, and since they are it's up to someone to try to save them."

Then suddenly he remembered that he had something to say to the girl. He opened his mouth to shout to her, but closed it again.