Jack did some quick mental calculating. "Fifty's better than none, and probably will carry us through," he finally announced. "At any rate, we'll be thankful for whatever she can spare us. Did you tell her we're in an aeroplane?"
"Yes," Fred answered, chuckling. "That's what all the conversation was about. The operator evidently had the captain alongside of him, and he must be a good sportsman himself. Thought it was the real Transatlantic contest, and of course I didn't disillusion them. But I had a hard time at first making them believe that we were in a plane. The operator bluntly told me to quit my kidding. Wanted to know what I meant by making a josh out of the S O S."
"When ought we to come across them?" was Jack's next inquiry.
For a moment Fred and Don figured together, then examined the compass and drew several lines upon the chart.
"Keep your present course," Don finally said, "and at our speed, with the tanker fifty miles away when Fred first got her, and she headed this way, we ought to sight each other in the next twenty minutes."
Again he was right. Hardly that time had elapsed when Fred, with the powerful marine glasses as an aid, shouted out that he could discern a streak of smoke.
Don took the glasses, and before he brought them down from his eyes the two-miles-a-minute speed of the plane had brought the vessel into sight.
"Gosh!" Jack breathed, with a long-drawn sigh. "She's the most welcome thing I've seen in a month of Sundays."
From an altitude of six thousand feet they began a slow descent, but without a decrease of speed. With the aid of the glasses Don could now discern some one, doubtless the captain of the tanker, on the bridge, gazing toward them intently.
The distance between them had now been reduced to not more than three miles, and the throttles were closed and all power shut off for the long downward glide which would bring them close to the vessel.