Into the thousands their altimeter swung its indicator.
Three thousand feet! Another five hundred! Four thousand!
“Now we must be higher than they are!” Larry muttered. “Jeff—for crickety-Christmas’ sake—catch them!”
Jeff leveled and their engine roared. In a quartering course, evidently making in an airline for some point on the Connecticut side of Long Island Sound, the seaplane held its way.
Gaining in a very flat descent, calculated, as Sandy could see, to bring them either alongside or—if fortune favored them—onto the tail of the other craft, Jeff drew closer.
The seconds slipped by. The North Shore was almost under them.
Swiftly the distance closed up between the racing flyers.
“They’re diving!” cried Sandy.
“Something’s gone wrong!” Dick yelled. “She’s out of control!”
The seaplane sheered to one side in a violent slip as her pilot evidently tried to bank and kick rudder and lost control.