The Dart was soon out of sight, the heavy layer of surface clouds obscuring its progress. Ben started in on a spiral flight. As he struck a second strata of clouds, he encountered some strong cross currents of air.
“It’s getting choppy,” ruminated the young aviator, and he arranged so he could lower the front control of the machine readily in case of a sudden gust.
It began to get chilly and uncomfortable as he struck a higher altitude. His leather suit was none too warm for him and splatters of moisture clouded the goggles he wore.
Ben bent himself to his work like a trained pilot. There were places where great banks of cloud enveloped him. He drove the monoplane through these like a torpedo boat thrusting its way through an opposing wave.
“Brr-rr!” he shivered, as an icy gale made the planes bend and rattle, and he felt himself becoming benumbed by the cold.
The highly rarefied air began now to affect heart and brain. Only by conserving his breath could Ben refrain from gasping outright.
“What is that?” he exclaimed, as a grinding, wrenching motion shook the machine.
It was an accumulation of ice on the planes of the airship. Icicles fell into the machinery, threatening to stop the motor.
“I’ve reached the limit, I guess,” decided Ben, dizzy-headed and half frozen.
A storm of hail cut against him as he made a full one mile glide. Then strata after strata of clouds were penetrated. A blurred landscape and dim outlines of houses and trees gradually came into view. When Ben alighted, both he and the aeroplane were coated with ice.