Aboard the gunboat, steam winches began weighing the two anchors, while officers and seamen hurried to batten down hatches and close ventilators. Slowly the craft’s sharp bow swung seaward. Her twin propellors churned white water at her stern.
Neither the launch nor its erstwhile occupants could be seen beneath that greenish cloud of poison gas. In vain the seaplane’s pilot circled the big airship over the jungle’s edge, looking for a break in the smoke.
“Fly lower, Panama!” commanded the hard-jawed man in the after cockpit. “If that stuff thins, even for a moment, we may be able to spot somebody. There’s eleven souls down there, at death’s door for all we know.”
“That’s where we’ll be, Mr. Splendor, if the gas hits us!” replied the pilot. “But here goes.... Look! The wind’s made a rift in the cloud! There’s the launch, and a couple of men sprawled beside it!”
“Drop landing gear!” cried Splendor, as the plane’s nose dipped earthward. “Land in the cove and taxi right up onto the beach. We must get those poor fellows to the gunboat or die trying!”
With a quick nod, Panama cut the throttle. An instant later the seaplane’s pontoons touched the water in a flash of white spray. Straight into the thinning gas cloud the ship plunged, heading for the level beach.
To anxious watchers aboard the gunboat, it looked as if Michael Splendor and his plucky pilot had committed deliberate suicide. Unable to see the rift which Panama had spotted from the air, they waited in agonized suspense for the plane’s reappearance.
Suddenly Captain Riggs raised a pointing arm.
“There’s the plane, now, but something’s wrong, Lieutenant!” he exclaimed, to the junior officer beside him. “See how low she rides in the water! And what under the sun are those dark blotches on the forward fuselage?”
Peering through his binoculars, Lieutenant Darnley cried out in amazement.