"Lou dear," she shouted, "if you're nervous, we'll go to Montreal, and put up for the night. Say the word—but say it quickly!"
"No! No! I'm for the quickest way home. And I have a lot of confidence in you, Linda."
"You better have, if you mean to cross the ocean with me. We'll have to get used to night flying, Lou, if we hope to succeed!"
"I know," agreed the other, as she settled down into her seat to try to keep warm.
Darkness came on, but the sky was cloudless, and the stars shone out brilliantly. Linda kept her eye on her chart, but although she did not tell Louise, she was not sure where they were. Had they crossed into New York state—were they flying in the northern part, or were they still in Canada? Her goal was Syracuse; she hoped to reach it before midnight.
The trees were still thick everywhere, and they were flying about fifteen hundred feet high. All of a sudden, without any warning, the engine missed and sputtered, and stopped dead!
Louise, who for the last five minutes had been peacefully dozing, awoke with a start at the abrupt cessation of noise. Just as a Pullman traveler will sleep while a train is moving, and wake up at a station, so the silence affected Louise. It was positively uncanny.
"What's the matter, Linda?" she whispered, hoarsely.
"Out of gas," replied the pilot, grimly.
"Then—then—" She clutched her companion's arm, desperately—"Then we jump?"