S. O. S.
The spot of light which raced across the waters of the sea where no land
was to be seen, where the black surface of the swiftly changing waters
shone always beneath the occupants of the seaplane, took on an ever
widening circle. There appeared to be no end to Alfred Brightwood's
belief that somewhere in the midst of all this waste of waters there was
an island.
Vincent Ardmore had long since given up hope of becoming rich by this
mad adventure. His only hope, the one that gave strength to his arms
benumbed by long clinging to the flashlight and new sight to his eyes,
weary with watching, was that they might discover some bit of land, a
coral island, perhaps, where they might find refuge from the sea until a
craft, called to their aid, might rescue them.
The thought of returning to the mainland he had all but abandoned. The
gas in the tank was too low for that; at least he was quite certain it
must be.
There was a chance, of course, that if they alighted upon the water and
sent out an S. O. S., the international call for aid, they would be
answered by some near-by ship. But this seemed only a remote
possibility. He dared not hope it would happen. They were far from any
regular course of trans-Atlantic vessels and too far from shore to be
picked up by a coast vessel or a fishing smack. The very fact that this
island, marked so plainly on the ancient map, had been in this
particular spot, so remote from the main sea-roads, had strengthened
their belief that during all the centuries of travel it had been lost
from man's memory and hidden from his view. Now this very isolation,
since they were unable to locate this island, if indeed it existed at
all, threatened to be their undoing.
Still they circled and circled with great, untiring sweeps. At last,
releasing the searchlight, Vincent put his lips to a speaking tube.
"Let's light," he grumbled. "I'm dead. What's the use?"
"What else can we do but keep looking?" Alfred answered.
"Take a look at the gas. Maybe it will carry us back."
Even as he spoke, a strange thing happened. The air appeared suddenly to
have dropped from beneath the plane. Straight down for fifty feet she
dropped.
With the utmost difficulty Alfred succeeded in preventing her from
taking a nose dive into the sea.
"She--she bumped," he managed to pant at last. "Something the matter
with the air."
And indeed there was something about the atmospheric conditions which
they had not sensed. Busy as they had been they had not seen the black
bank of clouds to the northeast of them. With the wild rush of air from
sheer speed, they had not felt the increasing strength of the gale. Once
Vincent had fancied that the sea, far beneath them, seemed disturbed,
but so far beneath them was it that he could not tell.
Now in surprise and consternation, as if to steady his reeling brain, he
gripped the fuselage beside him while he shrilled into the tube:
"Look! Look over there! Lightning!"
"Watch out, I'm going down," warned the other boy. "Going to light."
To do this was no easy task. Three times they swooped low, to skim along
just over the crest of the waves, only to tilt upward again.
"Looks bad," grumbled the young pilot.
The fourth time, he dared it. With the spray spattering his goggles, he
sent the plane right into the midst of it. For a second it seemed that
nothing could save them, that the wave they had nose-dived into would
throw their plane end for end and land her on her back, with her two
occupants hopeless prisoners strapped head down to drown beneath her.
But at last the powerful motors conquered and, tossed by the ever
increasing swells, the plane rode the sea like the stormy petrel after
which she had been named.
"Quick!" exclaimed Alfred as the motors ceased to throb. "Strip off your
harness and get back to the tank."
A moment later Vincent was making a perilous journey to the gas tank.
Twice the wind all but swept him into the sea; once a wave drenched him
with its chilling waters. When at last he reached his destination it was
only to utter a groan; more gas had been used than he had dared think.
"Can't--can't make it," he mumbled as he struggled back to his place.
"Have to send out an S. O. S. then. What wave length do you use?
"You ought to know," exclaimed Vincent almost savagely. "You were the
one who insisted on using it when we were making up our plans."
"Six hundred? Oh, yes," Alfred said indifferently. "Well, what of it?"
"Just this much of it," said Vincent thoughtfully. "I've been going
over and over it in my mind the last little while. What if we send out
our S. O. S. now and some selfish landlubber such as we were is talking
about matters of little importance and muddles our message? We might be
left to drown."
"Aw, can that sob stuff," grumbled Alfred angrily. "Are you going to
send that S. O. S. or am I?"
"I will," said Vincent, preparing to climb to a position on the plane
above him where the radiophone was located. "But"--he suddenly began to
sway dizzily--"but where are we?"
He sank back into his seat. For a full moment, with the waves tossing
the plane about and the black clouds mounting higher and higher, the two
boys stared at one another in silence. Yes, where were they? Who could
tell? They were not trained mariners. They could not have taken a
reckoning even had they been in possession of the needed instruments.
"Why," said Alfred hesitatingly, "we must be somewhere near that spot
where the island was supposed to be located. That's as near as we can
come to it. Send out that latitude and longitude; then we'll climb back
into the air. We'll be safer there than on the water and we can keep the
searchlight shooting out flashes in all directions. A ship coming to our
aid will see the light."
"If they come," Vincent whispered.
"Hurry!" exclaimed Alfred, as a giant wave, rising above its mates,
threatened to tear their plane into shreds.
With benumbed and trembling fingers the boy unwrapped his instruments,
adjusted a coil, twisted a knob and threw in his switch. Then his heart
stood still. The motor did not start. Had it been dampened and
short-circuited? Would it refuse to go? Were they already lost?
Just as he was giving up in despair, there came a humming sound and a
moment later the well-known signal of distress had been flashed out
across the waves. Three times he repeated it. Three times in a few sharp
words he told their general location and their plight. Then with wildly
beating heart, he pressed the receivers to his ears and awaited a reply.
A moment passed, two, three, four; but there came no answering call.
Only the buzz and snap of the ever-increasing static greeted his
straining ears.
Once more he sent out the message; again he listened. Still no response.
"C'm'on," came from the boy below. "It's getting dangerous. You can get
a message off in the air. Gotta get out o' here. Gotta climb. May not be
able to make it even now."
As the other boy glanced down at the white-capped waves all about them
he realized that his companion spoke the truth.
Hurriedly rewrapping his instruments, all but the receivers, which by
the aid of an extension he brought down with him, he made his way to his
seat and strapped on his harness.
"All right," he breathed.
Once more the motors thundered. For a long distance they raced through
blinding spray. Little by little this diminished until with a swoop,
like a sea gull, the magnificent plane shot upward. The next instant
they felt a dash of cold rain upon their cheeks. Was the storm upon
them? Or was this merely a warning dash which had reached them far in
advance of the deluge? For the moment they could not tell.