"Ah! She works! She works!" he exulted.
Then with trembling fingers he sent out the signal of distress. He followed this with their location, also in code. Three times he repeated the message. Then snapping on his receiver, he strained his ear to listen.
"Ah!—" his lips parted. He was getting something. Was it an answer? He could scarcely believe his ears. Yet it came distinctly:
"Yacht Kittlewake, Curlie—"
Just at that moment the plane gave a sickening swerve. Caught off his balance, the boy was thrown clear off the platform. The receiver connection snapped. He hung suspended by the single strap. Madly his hands flew out to grasp at the pitching rods. Just in time he seized them; the strap had broken.
With the agility of a squirrel he let himself down to his old place behind his companion. To buckle on the remaining straps was the work of a moment. Then, in utter exhaustion and despair, he allowed his head to sink upon his chest.
"And I was getting—getting an answer," he gasped.
His companion had seen nothing of his fall. Glancing behind him for a second, he saw Vincent in his seat in the fuselage.
"What'd you come down for?"
"Got shaken down."