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 shivered 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 lashings 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.

Some moments after that, save for the wild beat of the storm, there was silence. Then, clapping the receivers to his ears, Curlie uttered an exclamation. He was getting something, or at least thought he was. Yes, now he did get it, a whisper. Faint, indistinct, mingled with static, yet audible enough, there came the four words:

"h.e.l.lo there, Curlie! h.e.l.lo!"

At that moment the currents of electricity playing from cloud to cloud set up such a rattle and jangle of static that he heard no more.

"It's that girl in my old home town, in that big hotel," he told himself. "To think that her whisper would carry over all those miles in such a gale! She's sending on 600. Wonder why?"

"Ah, well," he breathed, when nothing further had come in, "I'll unravel that mystery in good time, providing we get out of this mess and get back to that home burg of ours. But now--"

Suddenly he started and stared. There had come a loud b.u.mp against the cabin; then another and another.

"It's the boats!" he shouted. "They've torn loose. Should have known they would. Should have thought of that. Here!" He handed the receiver to Joe and once more dashed out into the storm.

The _Kittlewake_ carried two lifeboats. As he struggled toward where they should have been, some object swinging past him barely missed his head.

Instantly he dropped to the deck, at the same time gripping at the rail to save himself from being washed overboard.

"That," he told himself, "was a block swinging from a rope. The boat on this side is gone. Worse luck for that! We--we might need 'em before we're through with this."

Slowly he worked his way along the rail toward the stern. Now and again the waves that washed the deck lifted him up to slam him down again.

"Quit that!" he muttered hoa.r.s.ely. "Can't you let a fellow alone."

Arrived at last on the other side, he rose to his knees and tried to peer above him to the place where the second lifeboat should be swinging. A flash of lightning aided his vision. A groan escaped his lips.

"Gone!" he muttered. "Should have thought of that! But," he told himself, "there's still the raft!"

The raft, built of boards and gas-filled tubes, was lashed to the deck forward. Thither he made his difficult way.

To his great relief, he found the raft still safe. Since it was thrashing about, he uncoiled a rope closely lashed to the side of a cabin and with tremendous effort succeeded in making the raft snug.

"There, now, you'll remain with us for a spell," he muttered.

Clinging there for a moment, he appeared to debate some important question.

"Guess I ought to do it," he told himself at last. "And I'd better do it now. You never can tell what will happen next and if worst comes to worst it's our only chance."

Fighting his way back to his cabin, he returned presently with the post-shaped affair which he had lashed to the springs of his berth.

This he now lashed to the stout slats of wood and crossbars of metal on the raft. When he had finished it appeared to be part of the raft.

"There, my sweet baby," he murmured, "sleep here, rocked on the cradle of the deep, until your papa wants you. You're a beautiful and wonderful child!"

Then, weary, water-soaked, chilled to the bone, stupefied by the wild beat of the storm, aching in every muscle but not downhearted, he fought his way back to the radio cabin.