But his thoughts kept coming back to torture him. The girl; always the girl. The imminent chance of coming down somewhere in the ocean, helpless, with gas all expended, and being battered to a wreck in a minute found no place in his mind. Suddenly the grumbling voice came across and woke him to action.
“Smoke on the port bow; three points.”
Rankin’s heart jumped up into his mouth and he peered through his windshield. Then he shot the machine down for the thin smudge across the horizon like a swooping eagle.
Five minutes; ten minutes. He could see Jim leaning out from his seat with the Zeiss prism glasses to his eyes. Jim waved an arm wildly to the right and ducked back into his hole.
“Blasted United Fruit boat.”
Grimly, without a word again, Rankin swung back and climbed on his course. After many minutes he spoke tersely, without emotion.
“Jim. Suppose we find her—and the waves smash us before she can pick us up. Better write a note; make a package. Maybe we can drop it.”
“Huh! If we find her we’ve been doing some flying, lemme tell you.”
But Rankin knew in the silence that Jim was scribbling furiously.
Dusk began to come. Rankin unconsciously began to strain his eyes over his wind-shield as though he had to rely on himself alone. Suddenly: