"Watch out, I'm going down," warned the other boy. "Going to light."
To do this was no easy task. Three times they swooped low, to skim along just over the crest of the waves, only to tilt upward again.
"Looks bad," grumbled the young pilot.
The fourth time, he dared it. With the spray spattering his goggles, he sent the plane right into the midst of it. For a second it seemed that nothing could save them, that the wave they had nose-dived into would throw their plane end for end and land her on her back, with her two occupants hopeless prisoners strapped head down to drown beneath her.
But at last the powerful motors conquered and, tossed by the ever increasing swells, the plane rode the sea like the stormy petrel after which she had been named.
"Quick!" exclaimed Alfred as the motors ceased to throb. "Strip off your harness and get back to the tank."
A moment later Vincent was making a perilous journey to the gas tank. Twice the wind all but swept him into the sea; once a wave drenched him with its chilling waters. When at last he reached his destination it was only to utter a groan; more gas had been used than he had dared think.
"Can't—can't make it," he mumbled as he struggled back to his place.
"Have to send out an S. O. S. then. What wave length do you use?
"You ought to know," exclaimed Vincent almost savagely. "You were the one who insisted on using it when we were making up our plans."