"Quite some time, I fancy," Freddy Farmer said. "The chap waving his shirt seems to be the only one with any life in him. The three huddled down in the raft might as well be dead. Sights like that one make me thank my lucky stars I'm in the air end of this blasted war."
"You can say that again for me!" Dawson echoed. "At least in the air you get it clean and fast. Mostly, anyway. Check and double-check! The boys that really deserve the medals and the praise in this scrap are the merchant marine fellows. They have nothing to fight back with except a pea-shooter at the stern, and maybe one on the bow. They're perfect floating targets twenty-four hours a day. If their engines break down, heaven help them! Yes, my hat is off to those fellows, and I don't mean maybe. I—Hey, Freddy! See that? He's trying to send us a message with his shirt, isn't he? He seems to be waving it down to the right more than down to the left."
"That's right!" Freddy Farmer cried. "That's the old International Morse code done with a flag. To the right is a dot, and to the left is a dash. And straight down in front means the end of a word. Now, where's my blasted pencil, and I'll put it down. There he put it down in front three times! That means the end of the message. If he'll only repeat it, I think I can get it."
The man standing on the tiny raft seemed to wait a moment or two, as though he were striving to rally his waning strength for another effort. Then he started waving his shirt again. It was a short message, and both boys got it without bothering to jot down each letter. The message signaled was:
FLY OVER LOW PLEASE, IMPORTANT
"What do you make of that, Freddy?" Dawson asked, and dipped the Vultee's nose even more. "Does he think we're a rescue plane that's come to drop food and water, poor devil?"
"I don't know," the English youth replied. "Possibly. Or maybe there's something on the raft he wants us to see. The only thing to do is to go down and find out. I say! I've just remembered! I have some chocolate, Dave. I'll tie it up in my handkerchief and try to drop it right onto the raft, if you get us down low enough. But, for heaven's sake, don't hit the raft, or the water!"
"Aw gee!" Dawson grated at him. "And that's just what I was planning to do, too! You spoil all my fun, you dope! Act your age, will you?"
"Just don't take us down too low," Freddy Farmer reminded him evenly.
Dawson opened his mouth to make a fitting retort. Instead he shrugged, let Freddy's remark slide, and concentrated on getting the Vultee down as low as he possibly could. When he had reached an altitude of some ten or fifteen feet, he throttled the Wright Cyclone until it was just a shade on the good side of stalling. He guided it toward the tiny life raft. The shirt-waver had ceased his signaling and was crouching down on the raft as though he were afraid Dawson was going to bounce the Vultee's belly off the top of his hatless head.