“Have you a map of these waters?” he had written.
Bill shook his head. “It’s in the forward cockpit,” he wrote. “We were about twenty-five miles south of Oyster Keys when we landed. The mainland is a few miles north of them. Uninhabited mangrove swamps, I think.”
He passed back the notebook and pencil. And after glancing at what he had written, Mr. Bolton scribbled a few more words and handed Bill the book again.
“How about Oyster Keys?” read his son.
The wind was making less commotion now, so Bill tried using his voice.
“Low-lying islets,” he shouted. “I don’t think anybody lives there. Even head on to the storm as we are, the plane is drifting toward the keys—sure to be.”
“That’s good,” shouted back his father. “Maybe we’ll make one of them by morning.”
“I hope not!” was Bill’s reply. “Not in the sea that will be running by then. We’d smash up sure in the breakers.”
Mr. Bolton made no answer to this announcement and Bill spoke again. “We may need this flashlight again before morning, Dad. The batteries are small. They won’t last forever. Sorry, but I’m afraid we’ll have to sit it out in the dark.”
Mr. Bolton nodded. “Goodnight—-and good luck, son.”