Between the blue heaven above and white clouds below, he kept on flying in great circles, having in his ears the never-ceasing reverberations of the rolling and booming thunder. Would it never end! How long was he condemned to remain so high aloft?
The sun, at length, was descending in the west and before very long must disappear behind the distant masses of vapor. More than once Don considered tempting fate by a descent through the clouds, and each time the peril deterred him. How would it be possible for the Nieuport to live amidst such a raging storm!
“No, no! I can’t risk it,” muttered Don. “By George! Was a human being ever placed in such a position before? Just now I can’t say that I want to enjoy the caressing touches of those wind-blown clouds on my cheek.”
Bravely, the boy tried to divert his mind, but the physical discomforts, besides the increasing sense of being out of the world, made it quite impossible. The storm had now reached its height. Forked tongues of lightning were flashing incessantly in the clouds, illuminating the interior of their swiftly-flying masses with a weird and spectral bluish glare.
“Not yet! Not yet!” sighed Don, again. “Great Scott! I can’t stay up here forever. This is certainly a case where a fellow needs a friend. Hello! Something besides clouds and blue sky at last!”
Far below, just tiny specks, the pilot had observed a flock of birds, skimming close to the ragged, tossing edges of vapor—so close, indeed, that at times they became lost to view as it closed about them.
That sight was, indeed, a grateful one to the lone occupant of the upper air. He turned his machine to watch them, until at length they grew faint in the distance, then became lost to sight, leaving him to feel more alone than ever.
As the sun crept still lower toward the horizon, the effects began to change; the arctic whiteness was being replaced by softer and more mellow tints; delicate purplish shadows filled the hollows of the clouds, and the deep blue of the sky above was slowly fading. The scene constantly grew more wonderful and impressive. The rays of the great coppery-colored ball, at last partly submerged in the clouds, were tipping the masses of flying vapor with an orange glow. Sometimes their varying forms suggested mountain peaks or stretches of rolling hills; sometimes the keenly imaginative Don Hale could see in them suggestions of fairy-like cities, with minarets sparkling like spots of golden flame.
The knowledge that the day was coming to a close made him more and more eager to begin his homeward journey. But, with a persistency that was exasperating—alarming—the storm continued to expend its fury. Still there was not a rift—not a sign to give him either cheer or hope.
And now a new worry—a new apprehension—began to attack him; the gasoline was giving out. He could not hope to keep up his flight much longer. The thought made the blood fairly pound in his temples.