Chapter 29

A FLYING RESCUE

John turned the Sky-Bird upward at as stiff a slant as he felt would be safe for them in that high wind. At nine thousand feet they emerged above the first layer; but eastward the clouds appeared to terrace up gradually, and in the distance there extended another great wall, towering several thousand feet higher.

Some of the rain was now beginning to reach them. It came pattering down upon the roof; and under the strong impulse of wind and their speed, it struck the glass windows in front with a smack like buckshot. The moisture on the panes made it difficult to see out.

"Take a reading with the anemometer, Tom," ordered John, straining his eyes hard ahead.

This little instrument was something like a miniature windmill. Its four wings were supplied with cups which, as Tom held the instrument out of the window facing the wind, caused the spider to revolve. The latter was geared to a small dial, over the face of which passed a hand, much like a clock, indicating the speed of the wind.

"She's blowing fifty miles an hour, and gaining every minute," announced Tom. "That's the hardest wind we've been in yet."

"If we stay down here it will be blowing sixty within ten minutes," was the pilot's grim response.

Just then there was a blinding flash of light a little way ahead of them, accompanied by such a terrific crash of thunder that their ears rang.

"Gee!" cried Bob, "that was a close call! I'll bet that bolt came within a rod of striking us."

"A miss is as good as a mile," shouted John cheerfully. He and the others found that they would have to yell in order to be heard, so great was the noise from engine and storm.

_Zip!_ went a zigzagging livid streak across their range of vision. It seemed to be running straight for them, and instinctively they dodged--all but Tom and John. These old veterans continued to gaze coolly straight ahead as though nothing had happened. _Crash-h!_ went a clap of thunder. It seemed as if the whole heavens were being turned topsy-turvy. Even the airplane, usually so steady, heaved and rode like a rocking-horse.

The two younger members of the party were not to be blamed for feeling pretty well frightened by this time. It was one thing to be cutting through the fleecy white clouds of a calm day, and quite another to go stabbing through murky black ones which were rolling angrily, ejecting both wind and rain, and spitting out vicious roars and jagged streaks of pale-blue flame. One moment they would be in gloom; the next instant a cloud would be rent asunder with a ripping, tearing sound, and the whole turbid, boiling sky-universe would be bathed in the ghostly light. What a weird, fantastic, chaotic world they were in!

But it was only for a few minutes that they were in the worst danger. Soon, to their infinite relief, they had reached their "ceiling." They were now 15,000 feet up--almost three miles,--and below them lay the vast sea of troubled cloudland, dark and forbidding, rolling tumultuously like an ocean of curdled ink. It was a novel experience to be running in the clear air over all of this infernality of sounds and sights, while above them the blue, star-studded heavens looked down upon them calmly and peaceably.

For almost an hour the furious storm continued in the lower regions. Then it began slowly to subside. First the lightning stopped, then the thunder. The banks of clouds took on a lighter hue, and began to drift apart; a pinnacle here and a crag there were swept off by the winds, until the masses of nimbus became flattened out into patches of sun-flecked foam as beautiful as fresh-fallen snow.

The anemometer spun slower and slower as the gale decreased in violence, and presently the airplane was gliding along with its normal smoothness. Here and there, between the patches of white cloud, they caught glimpses of the ultramarine sea, thousands of feet below them.

It was so cold up here, even with the windows closed, that all the boys were shivering in their warmest wraps. The air, too, was so rarefied that it was with considerable difficulty that they could breathe, for they had been in it for some time. Not one flyer in a hundred can live at an altitude of twenty thousand feet, as he bleeds at the nose and mouth; and our aviators were up to within five thousand feet of that height. It was now time to descend.

John shut off both engines, and they began to volplane down in a great stillness, sailing like an immense hawk. Lower and lower they went--fourteen, thirteen, twelve, eleven, ten thousand feet. Now they were gliding through clear, thin air; now cutting a hole through a heavy cloud so impregnated with moisture that it sweat over the glass and the boys would have to wipe a sleeve across hastily to improve the vision. Eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two!

That was low enough. All this time the propeller had been spinning from the rush of air alone. Now John threw in the clutch; the revolving propeller shaft grabbed the crankshaft of the engine, and once more it began its rhythmic purr. Just a little upthrust of the tail-elevators and ailerons brought them again into the horizontal in a huge swoop. Nothing could have been prettier. They had escaped the terrible tornado, leaving it still galloping westward far behind them, and were once more in normal position for continuing their flight toward the goal!

Below them, for miles around, they could once more see the ocean uninterruptedly. Its mountainous waves and deep gorges of a short time previous had probably swallowed up many an unlucky ship that morning; but its temper was expended, and all it could do now was to sulk in long, even billows which every moment became flatter and flatter.

How had their rivals fared? This question was in the minds of every one of our flyers as the Sky-Bird continued swiftly on her course. In their hearts was a vague feeling that perhaps Pete Deveaux and his crowd might not have come out of the storm as lucky as they, for not one airplane out of a score could have outlived it. Their own escape had been almost miraculous. But for the good generalship of John they surely would have met with mishap.

So now, as they went along, a sharp lookout was not only kept for their rivals in the sky ahead, but anxious looks were cast over the expanse of white-capped waters. Calculations told them that by this time the other airplane could not be far ahead.

Less than ten minutes later, Tom espied a small object far away on their port quarter. It was bobbing about on the waves, rising and falling. Bob seized a pair of glasses, and took a long look. He turned around with his face full of excitement.

"Heavens, fellows!" he cried; "that object looks like an airplane!"

All took a look. Then they, too, were excited, There could be no doubt about it--the object was a wrecked airplane. And as it was extremely unlikely that there were other machines in the vicinity than their own and that of their adversaries', they were quite sure that it must be the remains of the _Clarion_.

John turned the Sky-Bird in the direction of the floating thing, and soon they saw what seemed to be the form of a human being clinging to one of the wings. John threw in both engines in an effort to get all possible speed out of the craft.

In a little while they were close enough to see that the wreck was really the _Clarion_. But what a sad-looking sight was the former handsome craft! Her tail had been wrenched off, and only half of one of her long wings could be seen. Out upon the other, on hands and knees, clinging desperately to the aileron brace, was the hatless, water-soaked figure of a man. As they came closer still they could see him waving his hand frantically at them.

With a glass, Paul saw that this person was Oliver Torrey. Anxiously his eyes roved over the wreck in quest of other survivors, but none could he discern. Irony of fate! had all of the others been drowned?

John brought the Sky-Bird down to within seventy-five feet of the sea as they approached. Tom seized the speaking trumpet, and as they swept over the _Clarion_ he bawled out: "Hang on, Torrey! We'll stand by, and save you if we can!"

But they were facing a herculean task, and realized it. They could not light upon the water. Nor could they stop in midair. How in the world could they effect the hapless flyer's rescue?

John circled at reduced speed while all of their minds were busy trying to work out the problem. In the meantime Torrey's frantic pleadings for them not to go away and leave him to his fate filled their ears. It was a trying, nerve-racking situation.

Bob Giddings struck upon the first idea.

"Why can't we trail a rope for him to catch?" he asked.

"He's probably too weak to climb a rope," objected Tom.

"I'll tell you what we can do," said Paul, with a happy thought. "We can take this coil of rope we have here and make a narrow ladder of it! That will be easy for him to catch, and easy to climb."

All agreed instantly that this was the only hope of rescue. So John kept the Sky-Bird slowly wheeling, while his three mates cut and tied until they had formed a narrow rope ladder about fifty feet long. One end of this they securely fastened in the cabin, while they let the other drop down through the glass trap in the floor.

To their dismay the rush of wind carried the light ladder out so horizontally behind that they saw they could never get low enough with safety for Oliver Torrey to reach it! What could they do now? It seemed they were destined to failure; that Torrey must be left to the cruel and hungry waves.

"I have it!" cried Bob. "We'll fasten Grandpa near the lower end of the ladder. His weight will be sufficient to keep it down straight."

This was a splendid scheme, surely. Accordingly, the monkey, wondering what new form of teasing was about to be imposed upon him, was fastened about three feet from the bottom end of the ladder, and Grandpa and his strange trapeze was then slowly let down until all of the ladder had been paid out. The crew were glad to note that it now hung almost perpendicularly.

Now the success of everything depended upon John. He must be skillful enough to bring the ladder across Torrey's position in just the right place for the flyer to grasp it as it swept past.

They shouted to the man below to stand up if he could, and comprehending in an instant his part of the program, he struggled to his feet, spreading them wide apart to brace himself, for the wrecked airplane was rocking somewhat from the action of the waves.

The first time John brought the Sky-Bird by he was too high; Torrey could not reach the ladder. The second time a sudden gust of wind blew the ropes too far to one side at the critical moment. The third time the machine itself was a trifle too far to one side. But on the fourth attempt success met their patient efforts; Torrey's hands seized the bottom rung of the ladder, and a few minutes later he had climbed up into the cabin and sunk weakly upon the floor. Paul then brought in the ladder, laughing nervously, and released Grandpa, who had not relished his part of the proceedings in the least, to judge from his excited chattering, most of which was bestowed upon the rescued man.