“Too bad we have to get there in broad daylight. Dad won’t like that.”
“Maybe not. But he’s lucky we’re getting there at all.”
“I’ll say he is,” yawned Charlie.
“Say, kid, you’d better take a nap. Take down your seat and curl up on the decking. You’ll find a couple of blankets stowed behind the bulkhead aft.”
“I guess that’s the best thing to do,” the youngster said sleepily.
“I know it is,” said Bill. “Keep that phone gear on your head, though. I’ve got to wake you before we get there. You’ll have to point out the house.”
“Sure. Nighty-night.”
“Good night and sweet dreams.”
Bill nosed up to six hundred feet. Above him, the clouds of swirling fog seemed less dense. His course led inland on a slant from the shore. New Canaan lies up in the Ridge Country, five or six miles back from Long Island Sound. With every mile he put between the plane and that body of water, the air, both below and above him became clearer and less bumpy. By the time the amphibian was flying over Hartford, three-quarters of an hour later, all signs of fog and storm had disappeared. Moonlight flooded the earth and the visibility was almost as good as on a clear day.
It was past five o’clock by his wristwatch and broad daylight when the amphibian, speeding at the same altitude, passed over the city of Lowell, Massachusetts, and over Lawrence and Haverhill, a few miles beyond. They were nearing the sea again, and Bill noticed that the closer they came to the coast, the stronger was the wind from the southwest behind them. A new thought came into his head. With the quick decision of the trained heavier-than-air pilot, he acted at once.