As he groped toward the ladder a bulky form emerged from the smoke above him.
“Don! Don, old man!” came Red Pennington’s choking cry.
“Right here, Red!” coughed Don Winslow, clinging to the ladder’s lower rungs. “I’m—uh—all right. Coming up now. But you shouldn’t have come back!”
“Thank heaven, you’re okay!” the redhead replied. “Want me to give you a hand?”
“No! I’ll make it. Hustle, now, or the smoke is going to—uh—get us both! Where’re Mercedes and Jerry?”
Pennington’s answer was a coughing fit, which shook the steel ladder. Just below him, Don Winslow gripped the narrow rungs and gasped for breath. After a moment the two men resumed their painful climb, fighting against a growing dizziness.
“Mercedes—Jerry—on the beach!” came Red’s muffled words. “Smoke too thick to see—see the boat. Got to save breath now, and—uh—climb!”
II
OUT OF THE POISON FOG
Over the jungle cove rolled an unbroken cloud of billowing, greenish smoke. It blotted out the white beach, spread out over the blue water, and crept slowly outward toward the anchored gunboat.
From its murky edge came the roar of powerful engines. The seaplane’s nose emerged from the poisonous smoke, slid swiftly over the waves, and rose like a great white gull into the clear upper air.