“I don’t see Scott!” he shouted back to Chick. “Do you?”
Chick, speechless, shook his head.
“He’s probably up above the clouds by this time!” called Garry; he knew how fast was the Dart. Probably, as he reasoned it, the watching pilot had seen the light in the clouds before the green flare had gone over the side. Its blaze had prevented their dimmed light from discerning the Dart, that was all.
“There comes the mail ’plane!” cried Don, waving an arm toward the North. Down the Sound, bringing the mail from a vessel still a hundred miles from land, the swift ’plane was seeking to prove the commercial advisability of lopping off delays in getting trans-oceanic mail to its destination.
They watched the fleet approach of the small ship that had been catapulted from a huge liner’s cabin deck.
“Look!” Chick’s voice was shrill.
Garry even, caught his breath. Unexpectedly, like the vision of a fantastic nightmare, Don also saw the catastrophe.
Sharply, parallel with their own course, the mail ’plane tipped down its nose.
Before it, a luminous cloud seemed to glow with a weird, unearthly light.
Down went the mail craft—into darkness—into the bay.