Dick echoed the cry. Jeff had already caught the threat of that swamp below them. They could not risk going a foot lower. The pilot opened his throttle, picking up climbing speed to the roar of his engine.
“We had to give in first,” Larry decided ruefully.
Not only had they given in. Jeff, it appeared, had given up. In thickening mist the risks were too great.
They had given up.
Jeff was climbing for the top of the bank, where he could come into the clear, get some idea of his location and return to report defeat to the yacht whose captain probably lay-to, waiting for news.
Nor did Jeff again cut the gun to listen.
“Oh, well,” Dick was always hopeful, “maybe we’ll get a ‘break’ sooner or later.”
Up, and still climbing, the airplane continued through the fog.
Low banks favored them.
With suddenly thinning rifts parting overhead they shot out into the clear sunlight. Beneath, stretching up disappointed fingers of murk lay the bank of fog.