“Are you the folks we talked with by wireless?” called Harry.
“The very same,” was the shouted reply, “but who are you? Can you get us off this? The ship won’t last much longer.”
“We’ll get you off all right,” exclaimed Frank comfortingly, and as he spoke Dr. Perkins allowed the Sea Eagle to glide down to the surface of the waves, alighting on the water about five hundred feet from the castaways. He at once headed the Sea Eagle round, and calling for reduced speed made for the sinking yacht.
“Slow down! Stop her! Reverse!” he shouted in rapid succession, as they bore down.
“On board the yacht!” hailed Frank, as they glided up alongside, “throw us a line.”
The desired rope came snaking through the air, falling across the Sea Eagle’s bow. Harry bounded forward and made it fast.
“Now haul in,” ordered Dr. Perkins, as soon as the propellers had ceased to beat the air; “easy now; we don’t want to foul the wings.”
His order was obeyed; and before long the Sea Eagle’s bow was scraping the side of the Wanderer. Fortunately, the sea was smooth, or the maneuver would have been impossible of execution. As it was, however, on the easy swell that was running it was made with comparatively small difficulty.
“Well, great Cæsar’s ghost!” blurted out a stout, blond man in yachting costume, who occupied, apparently, the position of owner of the yacht, “if this isn’t the twentieth century with a vengeance. Just think of it, Griggs—rescued by an aëroplane!”
The man addressed, a good-natured-looking man, almost as corpulent as the first speaker, nodded appreciatively.