III.

So absorbed was Ray in his thoughts and the mechanical inspection of gauges and dials that he did not notice when they plunged into the fog. It was, rather, the change in the tone of the motor as the moist air affected the mixture that caused him to peer anxiously out of the window in an effort to pierce the murk, then to pull open one of the side frames.

He closed this hastily against the rush of dampness and lighted up to look at his companion again.

She nodded in understanding, wrote on a slip:

It won’t delay us, will it?

His answer was a negative, coupled with a slight shrug.

In truth, he was not concerned; he had been astonished that they had not encountered fog earlier—off the Banks at this time of year. If ice did not form in appreciable quantities, the fog would not bother them. And all exposed surfaces had been treated with a special preparation calculated to obviate such a disaster.

He opened a side port again and ran his hand along the outside of the cockpit. No ice yet, at any rate. That was good. The hours crawled on.

Dawn came, gray and clammy. The ship still plowed through heavy, impenetrable mist that walled them in, enveloped them in its steely vapor. As if they were plunging on through nothing into nowhere, it seemed to Ray.

It was annoying, too. They ought to be no great distance from the Irish coast, he felt. Glancing back, he saw that Mrs. Benham had fallen asleep in spite of herself.

Ray grinned. She wasn’t missing a lot. Perhaps they would be in the clear when she should wake. His eyes drifted to the oil gauge and he gave a violent start.

For a moment he studied the indicator. M-m! That was funny. Not so funny, either. For the pointer stood fast at the mark at which he had noticed it an hour back! The oil was not feeding!

Hastily, Ray began an inspection of the connections. If it were some simple difficulty, he might be able to remedy it.

He woke Mrs. Benham, motioned her to take over the controls while he applied himself to the job of locating the trouble. He already could feel the increasing heat of the engine. He must work fast.

Marjorie Benham watched him and the instrument board alternately. She gathered the nature of the trouble almost at once, realized the gravity of it. Therefore it is not strange that her eyes were anxious.

Not that she was particularly fearful of her own safety; the failure of the effort was what preyed upon her mind in those few tense moments.

Ray cursed under his breath as he sought for indications of a bruise on the slender feed pipe, scanned valves and connections, tapped here and there in the hope of jarring loose the obstruction, whatever it might be. Now, the motor was alarmingly hot and a smell as of burning rubber assailed his nostrils—the melting of insulation!

He must take such measures for safety as were at hand. So, for a bit he abandoned his feverish search and took the ship.

“Send out a call,” his lips framed. And S O S sputtered forth into the fog, followed by the Silver Bird’s identifying SBDK and the position.

To Ray’s intense satisfaction there was an almost instant response. His companion listened intently, then leaned over and shouted in his ear: “There is help close by! Must we land?”

Before he could reply, the engine started to knock in a spasmodic fashion that, to Ray’s trained ear, spelled but one thing. Her connecting rods were going—burning out! That was the finish, then; they were done!

He swung about, caught Marjorie Benham’s eyes, motioned to the little compressed air cylinder which was attached to the pneumatic jacket she wore. Then he turned the valve on his own and cut out the worse than useless motor.

No reason for adding fire to their other perils. As the noise ceased and Ray set his lips grimly for the horrible, nerve-racking glide toward the water he could not see, there was borne to him the sound of a vessel’s fog horn: “Whamp! Wha-a-amp!”

The sound appeared to come from directly underneath. Ray was thankful for that. Their chances for rescue were excellent, if they could get clear after striking the water, and he believed the Silver Bird would float plenty long enough for that. He must be careful—careful!

Down, down they slid, on an easy glide, while Ray’s eyes strained for a glimpse of the water. His companion, he noted, was holding herself in readiness to slip out of the cabin. Down—down—

The sea rushed at him suddenly—rushed up in an oily heave! The tip of one wing caught in the crest of a wave, caught and tangled in that astonishing snarl which so frequently accompanies the landing of aircraft in water.

The ship swung violently about; her nose dived into the waves and she seemed about to turn a somersault. Instead, she hesitated at the highest point of the procedure, leaped heavenward briefly and crashed wickedly into the trough!

There was a splintering of wood, the “ping” of parting wires. Ray felt his head in terrific impact with something or other! Then, astonishingly, he was clear of the wreck and in the water!

There was a great confusion—the deafening booming of the fog siren! A cry from Mrs. Benham! Ray caught a swift glimpse of her, in the ocean like himself.

But his head was swimming and a great giddiness swept over him, even as he struggled to shout. The water set upon him, ominous, thundering masses of it—beating at him, bearing him down! He gasped and choked, then suddenly felt light and happy. Why—