“Yes, it’s—” Pant’s voice seemed blown back into him by the terrific gust of wind. The next instant, a darkness such as he had never seen; a tumult such as he had never heard; a torrent of rain such as he had never witnessed; a wild whirling such as he had never experienced, drove all power of thought from his befuddled brain, leaving him again a half-animate, over-large punching-bag, swinging in the narrow center of the cabin.
Even in this dizzy state of half-consciousness he thought of Pant. When told that he might not escape disaster, he had not said, “I have escaped before.” He might have said it, for there had been other adventures; a night in a forest in India, with a mad black leopard’s eyes gleaming at him out of the darkness; an hour in a dungeon-dark cave, with murderous savages about him. There had been other adventures, too, and he had escaped; yet he did not say, “I will again.” That was the kind of fellow he was. Confident of his ability, interested in all of life, thrilled by each new experience, he stood ready to face each one as it came and do battle valiantly, leaving the results to a power greater, a mind wiser, than his own.
At this moment when Johnny was thinking these thoughts, Pant was being dragged forward half out of his soggy, water-soaked harness, then slammed back into his seat, to be deluged to the drowning by a downpour that was not rain, he thought, but more like a sky-suspended tank of fresh water. He found himself surprised that the plane held up against it; that it did not sink at once into the sea. His leather coat hung like a weight of steel upon his shoulders; his eyes, his ears, his mouth were filled with water. It chilled, benumbed, depressed him.
The plane was traveling with the gale; whether in a circle or straight ahead, he could not tell. The engine was shut off. Would it start again at his bidding? That he did not know. If not, their situation was hopeless. The time would come when the storm would drop them, as it drops a bird it has harried and beaten to its death. Then, with no power, they would sink helpless into the sea. And such a sea as it must be! He had not seen it since the storm began. He could imagine it, though. Black, angry water tossed into foam. Billows, mountain high. What a landing-place for a seaplane! One resounding crash that echoed above the demon laughter of the waves, then all would be over!
“She must start! She must,” he muttered. Half-unconsciously he put his hand to the lever, then quickly drew it away.
“No, not now, not now,” he muttered. “The dust! The dust! If only it is still dry!”
Then, for a moment, his mind dwelt upon the wind. It was strange about that wind. It did not come in gusts, but flowed straight on like a stream of water. In the utter darkness, flooded by torrents of rain, carried steadily forward by that constant flow of wind, he was overcome by an illusion. He fancied himself passing beneath the surface of the sea. Only the touching of his tongue to his lips, to satisfy his mind that this was not salt water that beat in from every side, could dispel the illusion.
The whole thing was so terrific, so altogether beyond comprehension, that it shunted off the powers that drove his brain to action. It was altogether unbelievable.
As Johnny Thompson’s mind cleared itself of the effects of the airship’s mad whirl, it began puzzling over certain questions: What was to be the end of this? Why where they there?
The truth was, Johnny did not know why they were there. They had come upon this long and perilous air journey over the sea at the request of a stranger. No, perhaps they had not been as mad as that. The man had brought with him a letter of introduction from their employer. Yet, why should he not have told them more of his intentions? How could this journey benefit tens of thousands of children? They were in imminent danger of being destroyed by the storm. He felt that it would help if only he knew the reason why.