Then a look of consternation overspread his face.
“Jerry!” he shouted. “We’re headed square into a monstrous storm!”
“Absolutely.”
“We’d better turn back.”
“Absolutely.”
“May be too late,” the young aviator told himself. “But one can only do one’s best.”
Having cut a wide circle, he looked back. The outlaw plane had vanished. It had flown squarely into a bank of the deepest clouds. They were the darkest gray Curlie had ever seen. And that bank was an Arctic gale at its worst.
“May be the end of ’em,” he grumbled. And for the life of him, he could not help feeling sorry.
“May be the end of us, too.” He took a good grip on himself. “I’ll do my level best! No one could do more.”