longer
densely black. A mere mist, they hung like a veil over the sea.

"But the water?" His heart sank. "It will still be raging."

The storm had not so far passed as he at first thought. The plane cut a
circling path as she descended. Her wings were broad; her drop was
gradual. As they entered the first layer of clouds, she gave a lurch
forward, but with wonderful control the young pilot righted her. Seconds
passed, then again she tipped, this time more perilously. But again she
was righted. Now she was caught in a little flurry of wind that set her
spinning. A nose-dive seemed inevitable, but once more she came to
position. Now, as they neared the surface of the sea, a wild, racing
wind, the tail of the storm, seized them and hurled them headlong before
it. In its grasp, there was no longer thought of control. The only
question now was how they would strike the water and when. The very rush
of the wind tore the breath from Vincent's lungs. Crushed back against
the fuselage, he awaited the end. Once, twice, three times they turned
over in a mad whirl. Then, with a sudden rending crash and a wild burst
of spray, they struck.

The plane had gone down on one wing. For a second she hung suspended
there. Vincent caught his breath. If she went one way there was a
chance; if the other, there was none. He thought of loosening his
straps, but did not. So he hung there. Came a sudden crash. The right
motor had torn from its lashings and plunged into the sea.

The next second the plane settled to the left. Saved for a moment, the
boy drew a deep breath. A second crash and the remaining motor was gone.
During this crash the boy was completely submerged, but the buoyant
plane brought him up again. Then, for a moment, he was free to think, to
look about him. Instinctively his eyes sought the place where his
companion had been seated. It was empty. Alfred was gone.

Covering his eyes with his hands, he tried to tell himself it was not
true. Then, suddenly uncovering them, he searched the surface of the
troubled sea. Once he fancied he caught a glimpse of a white hand above
a wave. He could not be sure; it might have been a speck of foam. Only
one thing he could be sure of; his throbbing brain told it to him over
and over: Alfred Brightwood, his friend, was gone--gone forever. The sea
had swallowed him up.

CHAPTER XXI

THE BOATS ARE GONE

When Curlie Carson had fastened the mysterious post-shaped affair to the
spr