They had reached the far side of the water when, with startling suddenness, the storm struck. Catching their plane as if it were a wisp of paper, the wind whirled it up—up—up a thousand, two, three thousand feet, then sent it whirling down again.
“Just hold your seat,” Scottie’s lips were drawn into a straight line. “I’ve been all through this before.”
When their downward rush had slackened, he kept the plane headed toward the earth. “We’re still at five thousand feet,” he murmured. “Might be a bright spot below.”
All the time Mary was thinking, “We’ve come all that long way with the quinine and now—”
Suddenly, she let out a little cry of joy. From the very blackness of night that was the heart of a storm cloud, they leaped into clear, bright air.
Better still, beneath them lay a large clearing and at its far end, half hidden, was a small airfield.
Scottie spoke a few words into his radio. Mary caught the answer:
“Come on down, you monkey. What you want to do, stay up there and get wet?”
Roaring with laughter Scottie set the plane circling down. The next minute their plane bump-bumped and they slid in for a stop.
“Here we are!” Scottie exclaimed.