Beneath the Electric Monarch, soaring eagle-like far above it, a glimmering speck against the blue, lay the Atlantic. The ocean was in a calm mood. Viewed from above, its surface appeared to be as smooth as a mirror.

But Jack knew that appearances were deceptive. The Atlantic is never absolutely at rest. Even on the calmest days its bosom heaves with long, swinging swells, running shoreward to break in heavy, thunderous surf on the beach. He drew from a pocket beside the wheel the glasses with which the receptacle was equipped.

Controlling the wheel with one hand, he raised the glasses to his eyes with the other. He gazed downward through them and saw that the sea was lazily swelling in long, oily combers, which could be ridden with ease even by a cockleshell of a boat, whereas the Electric Monarch was actually two capable cabin cruisers fastened together Siamese-twin-like by ligaments of vanadium and steel and aluminum alloy.

“It’s safe enough to go down,” said Jack to himself and sounded two blasts on the electric whistle.

This was the signal to the engineer to come into the pilot house for a consultation. Ned soon presented himself. He was grimy but happy.

“How’s everything running?” asked Jack.

“Smooth as oil. You’d think the motors had been in commission for a long time instead of being on their initial trip.”

“That’s good. I didn’t have much fear but they would work all right. I’m going to try a drop, Ned.”

Jack watched Ned narrowly to see if the news had any effect upon him but Ned simply nodded his head in a business-like way and remarked:

“Very well, sir.”

At this juncture there came a shrill whistle on one of the speaking tubes leading to the helmsman’s wheel.

“Hullo, there’s Tom calling from the stern,” cried Jack, “wonder what’s up now.”

He placed the tube to his ear and then gave an exclamation of concern.

“Oh, that’s too bad.”

“What’s the trouble?” asked Ned.

“Why, Tom has an attack of air-sickness. It’s pretty bad while it lasts, but fortunately it is soon over. I’m going to call him in to lie down in the cabin a while. Can you leave your motors and stand watch astern, Ned?”

“Certainly. They’re all right for half an hour, anyhow. The current’s fine.” The boy glanced at the indicator, which showed a strong, steady supply of “juice.” Jack hailed Tom through the speaking tube and ordered him to come in at once and lie down. He then hailed Heiny, who by this time had gotten over his first scare, and told him to get some hot coffee ready.

“Tom will be ready for duty before long,” said Jack, as Ned left the pilot house, passing, as he made his way aft, Tom, who looked white and ill. But he assured Ned it was nothing, simply an attack of air-sickness which would soon pass over.

Ned took up his place in the stern between the two long supporting frameworks of the rear propellers. The wind was terrific but otherwise he felt no inconvenience except from the excessive vibration. He had not been standing there more than a few minutes, keeping a watchful eye all about him, when he noticed that the port stern bearing of one of the propellers was beginning to smoke.

“Hullo! We’ll be having a hot box first thing we know,” said Ned to himself. “I’ve got to oil that fellow and look sharp about it, too.”

He glanced out over the path he would have to travel. Ned was a plucky boy, but he felt a qualm pass through him as he looked. The propeller was fully ten feet out from the main structure of the craft and was supported by a thin framework of braces.

The task in front of Ned was to straddle this framework and make his way aft to the heated bearing, with nothing but 2,500 feet of space beneath his shoe soles. For a minute he felt tempted to ask Jack for instructions. But then his pride, always keen with Ned, came to his rescue.

“I’ll do it,” he determined, taking a firm grip on his faculties. “But it’s going to be some job.”

He gripped his oil can firmly, resolved to waste no more time. Then clambering up to the framework, he straddled himself over the top part of it, holding on to the lower part of it as best he could with his feet.

It was like riding a bucking broncho in mid-air. The gale from the big propellers swept around Ned like a hurricane. He felt his cap swept off his head and dared not look downward to watch it go hurtling toward the sea. He knew that the sight would be too much for his nerves.

Rallying himself with an effort, Ned began his dangerous crawl along the framework. The further out from the main structure of the craft he got the more nerve-racking became the task. The slender framework shook and swayed as if it was determined to shake him off, and send him flying into space.

Ned gripped his handholds till the paint flaked off on his palms. But little by little he managed to work his way toward the bearing. The propeller, a whirring blur before his eyes, dazzled him. The wind from it seemed to catch his breath and jam it back down his throat. He clung to his perch with the courage of desperation.

At last he reached a point from which he could reach the bearing. He raised the oil cup and doused the smoking metal with oil. And then, his duty done, he was horrified to feel a sudden wave of deadly nausea sweep over him. The sea seemed to rush up toward him, and his senses swam in a wild delirium.

“I must get back! I must! I must!” he said to himself, and then the terrible grip of air-sickness descended upon him again and again, and deprived him of all power to move.

Almost three thousand feet in the air, perched on a slender, bucking framework, and a prey to the most severe form of air-sickness, Ned’s position was perilous, indeed.

Suddenly he felt his senses leaving him. For a second he fought against insensibility with all the power he possessed. But it overmastered him. Ned felt his head swimming round and round like a detached body in an aurora of blazing light. All at once something seemed to give way.

He felt himself falling! falling!

Then a blackness like night shut down upon him and he knew no more.

It was perhaps a quarter of an hour later when Tom presented himself to Jack and announced that he was fit for duty.

“Very well, Tom, go back to your post and send Ned to resume his.”

Tom left the cabin. In less than ten seconds he was back. His face was blanched and his lips white. Jack noticed he was trembling violently.

“What in the world is the matter, are you ill?” demanded Jack.

“No—no, it’s Ned.”

“What’s up? Anything the matter with him?”

“He’s—he’s g-g-g-gone!”

“Gone!”

“That’s right. I went aft and there was no sign of him. Joyce says nothing has been seen of him up forward.”

“Great Scott!”

The boys faced each other with the fear of a great calamity on their faces. If Ned was not on board he must have fallen from the Electric Monarch while she was in mid-air. In such a case there was no need to debate over the fate of the young comrade they had grown to love.

“I can’t leave the wheel, Tom, you must do what you can,” said Jack, his voice trembling in spite of himself.

Tom stammered some reply and left the pilot house. He summoned young Dill.

“Come aft with me,” he ordered. “We’re afraid an accident has happened.”

“An accidend! vot sort of an accidend?” blurted out the German youth.

“We’re afraid that Ned Nevins has fallen overboard.”

“Donnervetter!”

“You must keep a cool head, Dill, and do what I tell you.”

“I am as cool as a whole barrel of cucumbers,” was the reply.

“Then come with me. There’s one chance in ten thousand that he may be on board and alive.”

Silently the two made their way aft along the heaving, swaying bridge, a dreadful fear gnawing at their hearts.