Chick saw the buoy bobbing closer.
“A point to the right, Don!” Garry called into his tube. “He can’t quite reach—that’s better!”
An instant later he spoke again.
“Cut the gun, Don!”
The Dragonfly, skittering along on the top of the moiling wake began to settle into it, more shaken than before by the immersion into a swirl of cross-currents; but the instant of delayed speed was all that Chick required.
His outreaching hand stretched on straining muscles.
Fingers alert and agile gripped the rope bound around the buoy.
“Full-gun, Don!”
Up, and out of the danger of an upset, with engine roaring, they rose.
Chick, clinging to the mail pouches, held on.