The plane had broad, spreading wings. It would float with easy grace to the very surface of the sea. But then?
There was plenty of time to think now. No one cared to speak. Their minds were concerned about many things. Life as they had lived it lay spread out before them like the pages of a picture-book. All the past moved before them. They came to the end, at last, and thus to the question of the ship in the storm and the wreck on the desert island. Had the ship escaped from the storm? Was the wreck still intact, or had it been destroyed by the waves? Would the wreckers find the treasure? What then?
Slowly the plane drifted down. Eight thousand feet, seven thousand, six, five, four, three.
Suddenly Pant moved in his seat. Seizing his tube in his excitement, forgetting that they might easily speak to one another since the sound of the engines was gone, he shouted:
“Listen!”
Johnny threw open the door of the cabin and sat listening.
“I only hear the waves,” he said.
“Two kinds of sounds, though,” smiled Pant; “a steady wash and a thundering.”
“Yes, I hear them.”
“The thundering means land.”