Friendly pilots, considering Larry such a boy aviator as Bobby Buck had proved to be, gave him some instructions that were most valuable, concerning night flying. The wind would be dead ahead, for most of his trip toward Maine, and he could check his direction by that until he had to veer to the West of North, when the wind, quartering, would drift him off the course—but they gave him rough corrections, and advised him to get above the clouds that were bearing down on Boston—local thunder storms.
Once more the low-wing craft took the air, climbed to a good height, Larry used his instructions, got the nose into the wind and drove ahead.
Slowly, as the distance behind them increased, their distance behind the other two ships grew less. Minute by minute they cut their handicap. Dick strained his eyes ahead, and to either side, watchful, eager.
He said almost nothing into the Gossport tube he had at his lips.
Larry knew his business: Dick wore the instructor’s part of the outfit only because it was the only helmet they could get at the start.
Under them black clouds, torn by vivid streaks of blue-white light, reeled backward, their tops tumbling and tossing.
Above them the night sky shone serene, with the full moon, just nicked by the curve of old Mother earth, riding higher and higher.
That was a glorious picture, had any one of them had the wish to enjoy it. But they were intent on much more important sights than that of a lovely sky.
“Flying lights ahead—” Dick spoke excitedly into the Gossport tube.
“Two sets—” he added.