Its rapid approach gave Don much uneasiness.
Wind, rain and turbulent wrench of storm could be avoided by going at once to the airport. They could set down, get the Dragonfly in the hangar, and get help to proceed by safer ways to the rescue of the pilot.
If they tried to set down in the water of the marsh, the storm might break upon them before they could rescue the fallen pilot, always supposing that they could get him out of his ship.
Garry, scribbling another note, passed it up.
Don read it in the next flicker of the intermittent lightning.
“It is dangerous to try to go down. But his life may hang on quick aid.”
Don, reading what Garry had written, nodded, kept the nose down, added a spurt of the gun to be sure of clear cylinders, and then side-slipped to lose altitude as quickly as he could. He brought the ship to a level once more, and, while Chick sent over white landing flares to help him chose his landing without risk, made contact with the water.
While the Dragonfly sped with diminishing momentum across the wide stretch of water they had formerly used, Chick and Garry were busy.
From a conveniently located small locker Chick drew out and uncoiled rope with which to secure the Dragonfly if they were not able to go aloft and escape the storm. If they had to “ride it out” he wished to be able to stake down the wings and tail, to prepare the ship as well as possible against the tear and stress of high winds. He hoped that the airplane would run close to the edge of the open water. There, he knew, was a small dock, on the widened end of which stood a small, two-room shack used by a boatman who rented his small dories for crabbing excursions into the channels of the swamp.
Garry, with quick hands, drew out a first aid kit from a pocket in his cockpit, glancing into its box to assure himself that it contained the liniments, bandages and adhesives he might need. Garry had taken a number of lessons in first aid and instinctively thought of the work of mercy he might be called upon to do.