CHAPTER VIII
The Jaws of Death
A light breeze was already blowing, and amid cries of farewell and encouragement from those on the ground the boys headed their aeroplane into this and took off to a perfect start just as the rim of the morning sun appeared over the horizon. The glorious beams flooded the beautiful green landscape below them, and the boys felt a wonderful surge and uplift of spirit that matched the upward flight of the aeroplane as it climbed swiftly toward the clouds. Higher and higher they went, until the little group of waving figures became mere dots, and then were entirely lost to sight.
The motor roared its rhythmic speed song as Phil opened the throttle bit by bit, until their instruments registered an altitude of a thousand feet and a speed of ninety miles an hour. This was not by any means the maximum speed of which the machine was capable, but they were not out to break speed records, and preferred to save both gasoline and excessive wear on the engine.
The light breeze with which they had started freshened after awhile, but it was steady, and so did not interfere with their progress as an unsteady, puffy breeze would have done. The sun climbed higher in the heavens, but the wings of the plane protected them from the intensity of its rays, and they could not have been more comfortable nor felt more secure had they been seated in rocking chairs at home.
After they had been traveling a few hours, however, the weather became somewhat hazy, and suddenly, before Phil could change his course, they had run into a solid bank of dense gray fog that shut off the genial rays of the sun and sprinkled them liberally with moisture.
“Good night!” exclaimed Dick. “I hope it doesn’t take us long to get out of this, Phil. It’s as damp and cold as a vault.”
“You don’t want to get out any more than I do,” returned Phil. “About the only thing we can do is hold our course and hope that the fog belt isn’t very wide. Chances are we’ll run out into the sunshine within a few miles.”
This prediction proved to be far too optimistic, however, for after they had traveled half an hour the fog seemed even more dense than before, and at last Phil decided to descend and try to get under it. Piloting an aeroplane in a fog is almost as bad as trying to walk blindfolded on the ground; one never knows what unexpected object he is going to collide with.
Phil’s instruments told him that he was several hundred feet above the earth, but he knew that they were flying above hilly country, and it does not take a very pretentious mountain to be five hundred or so feet high. However, something must be risked in order to win clear of that clammy, clinging fog, so Phil headed the plane steadily earthward. At length the boys could see a lightening of the fog, upon which they all gave three lusty cheers. A few moments later they swept out into dazzling sunlight, but what they saw struck the shouts of gladness from their lips.
Directly in their line of flight towered a high and threatening wall of rock, so close that Dick and Tom gripped the sides of the aeroplane with every muscle tense, waiting for the crash to come.