Jack and Don went at it first, and for half an hour they worked heroically, appreciably diminishing the distance between the craft and shore, but still leaving what seemed to be nearly two miles intervening. Then they were relieved by the now recovered Andy and Fred.
Thus alternating, they kept at the task for two hours, and the sun dipped in the western waters and twilight came before they were within what they could consider a safe distance of land.
It was Jack and Don who finished up the last lap, and, as darkness fell, brought the craft back into shallow water.
But they were upon an entirely different part of the coast—a barren, rocky section, apparently without inhabitants.
Fortunately each had, in the locker of the plane, a change of clothes. These they brought ashore, but not a match could they find.
Having securely anchored the craft this time, they entered a little grove, some hundred yards or more from the shore, and there changed their clothes, hanging the wet garments on the limbs of the trees to dry.
"We can't do more tonight," Jack yawned, when this job was completed. "I'm nearly dead, and I guess you fellows are, too. There's no sign of a house anywhere around here, so I guess we'll have to bunk on the ground for tonight."
"Suits me," said Andy Flures, wearily. "I could sleep anywhere."
With their arms for pillows they stretched out on the softest ground they could find, and before fifteen minutes had elapsed four husky but tired-out young men were snoring lustily and rapidly regaining their rest in sleep.