As Curlie sped on his way after the “Gray Streak,” which was leading him farther and farther into the great unknown that is the Arctic wilderness, he came to a sudden resolve.
“I’ll turn back! Fifteen minutes more, and then if we do not arrive at their base, if they are not forced down for want of gas, I will head for Fort Chipewyan,” he told himself.
Then nature took a hand. Out of the north a whirling avalanche of snow came tearing down upon them.
Just as the last trace of land was blotted out by this winding sheet of white, the boy made out a broad, level expanse which he knew to be a lake.
“Be over it in five minutes,” he shouted to Jerry. “Got to land there, make or break.”
“Absolutely.” Jerry’s grin was still there.
At that moment, as if angered at thought of losing its prey, the gray storm leaped at them. Throwing its feathery arms about the plane, it tossed them high. Curlie gasped. His indicator showed a speed of one hundred and sixty-five miles an hour as his ship, quite out of control, shot aloft.
Cross currents ripping from both sides tossed the plane as a kitten tosses a ball. Feeling his safety belt loosen, the young pilot dug in his toes and stayed with the ship.
As sudden as their entrance into the cloud came their departure. Tossed forth like dust from a cart wheel, the boy found his plane tilting at an angle of forty-five degrees.
With a quick intake of breath, he righted the plane and headed her downward.