Mechanically, his fingers tapped out location and a call for help. Then Hal began to maneuver his seaplane for a landing in these troubled waters. Assistance he knew would come quickly, but perhaps not quick enough in this case. If the plunging tree raft with its lone little passenger was swept into the eddies just beyond it would be the end.
Hal brought his plane to water as close to the forest derelict as he dared. He stood, braced himself strongly, and hurled a coil of rope. It hissed through the air and fell over the leafy drift. At the first throw he caught only some twigs that the rope knotted about and he had to jerk it free. The next cast, however, fell over the body of the child, and by expert jockeying was finally tightened about the shoulders. A moment later Hal had drawn the slight burden to the edge of the seaplane and gotten it aboard. Like a great bird the aircraft zoomed up and sped back towards camp.
As Hal landed and came up from the improvised wharf bearing the child in his arms, it was pitiful to watch hope blaze in Colonel Wiljohn’s eyes—then as quickly die, for the child was not Jacky Wiljohn.
But he was someone’s darling. At the end of a long line of refugees waiting before the open-air kitchen for their tin pannikins to be filled with the steaming food, stood a haggard woman who seemed to have no interest in food or anything else. With a sudden scream, this one darted out of line, crying, “Renee! Renee! My lost child!” as she gathered the little boy into her arms.
It was far into the afternoon when Hal paused at the kitchen grounds for a hasty lunch, his first bite since the morning soup. He began to realize how weary he was, for his hand was trembling as he picked up the big mug of steaming coffee.
Radio kept even a rescue camp in touch with world news. As Hal revived his drooping spirits with a good, thick hot beef sandwich, he heard men discussing word that had just come in concerning the two flyers, Lang and Munger, who had crossed the continent in their planes, preparatory to undertaking the great Pacific non-stop flight. On all sides, argument waxed hot over this coming event. Wasn’t there enough land-flying to keep men busy without all this running into needless danger trying to fly over the frozen poles and the oceans? And yet, so ran the other side of the argument, think of the future of aviation, the real service these pioneer flights were doing, the huge money prizes, the glory!
After the meal, the flyers that had been out on flood patrol were snatching a little rest.
A dreadful restlessness urged Hal Dane back into his scout plane. A new savage energy drove him with the feeling that he must work till he dropped. He must be too tired to think. Thoughts were dangerous. The news that already at Oakland airport, across the bay from San Francisco, planes were lining up to compete in the Pacific race, stirred him terribly, shook the iron control that he had fought to preserve.
As soon as weather conditions permitted, a dozen planes would be off on the great flight—and his plane would not be among them!
The time for the splendid Onheim Safety Device Contest was looming even nearer. Just a few days to that date now.