Nothing but the deep grayish blue everywhere.
Suddenly, out of the gloom ahead, they made out a white shape rising straight up a hundred feet above them. It looked pale and ghostly. There was no time to figure out what it might be. The Skipper instinctively yanked the stick back. The plane staggered up, making a valiant effort to obey the demands of its pilot. Jack glanced up from his instruments just in time to see this white spectre approaching with terrific speed. He turned a look of amazement and horror upon the Skipper.
The plane climbed ever so sluggishly, but as the shape came rushing at them they saw that it would be cleared if only by a matter of inches.
“It’s an iceberg!” exclaimed Jack.
The Skipper pushed the stick forward and leveled out just as their flying speed was dropping to an alarming extent. He was hardly quick enough, for one wing dropped and they started into a flat spin. At once the Skipper put the nose down until they had flying speed.
They rushed along. Realizing that there might be more bergs in the neighborhood, both watched ahead with a fascinated gaze. They saw two more—one to their right, so close that their throats tightened with the fear of it.
Strangely enough the air here seemed a little warmer. The plane was handling better, and they began to hope that the ice was not gaining on them.
Twenty minutes went by, and they began to feel a little easier. Now there was no doubt but that they had hit a warm air current and the ice was melting.
The Skipper was able to throttle back the engine and still keep an altitude of about one hundred feet above the ocean. They were close enough now to see the mighty heave of its waters, the blue-black of its surface broken here and there by white foam as the waves broke.