Good-natured Mrs. Beasley soon after arranged sleeping accommodations for her young guests, and that night the young aviators slumbered peacefully, while above them the great revolving light swept steadily in slow circles, warning vessels passing up and down the Sound of the dangerous proximity of Rocky Point.
The next day dawned bright and fair. The sea lay like a sheet of blue glass, with scarcely a ripple to mar its polished surface. The last trace of the wind had died down.
“We’ll have no more breeze till sundown,” announced Mr. Beasley at breakfast. Like most men of his profession, he was an earnest and accurate student of the weather. After breakfast Jeff Stokes, who had been on duty all night, was relieved by his assistant, a young man who boarded in the village and rode over to his duty on a motor-cycle.
“Well,” said Roy, after they had thanked their good-hearted entertainers warmly, “I guess it’s time for us to be getting home.”
But Peggy had noted a wistful look in Jeff Stokes’s eyes as he stood by the side of the aeroplane, which an examination had already shown to be none the worse for its buffeting of the night before.
“Would you like to try a little flight, Jeff?” she asked.
“Would I?” echoed the youth; “will a duck swim?”
“Yes, I believe so,” laughed Roy, “and so can a certain young wireless operator fly.”
“Gee, Roy, you mean it?”
“Of course, if you’re not scared.”