A week had passed without a single sign of Lefty, Steve or the missing plane.

Every pilot had taken a hand in the search for the lost Marines but each in turn finally gave up the hunt in despair as a hopeless task.

The only man who remained on the blind trail without a single lead was Panama, who, with silent doggedness, flew over the jungle, through swamp lands and across mountain tops night and day, grimly determined to bring back his men dead or alive.

In a malaria-filled swamp, just behind the tall mountain range that looked down upon the corral on the opposite side where the brave company of Marines had met Sandino’s men seven days before, what was once an airplane rested in an upright position with more than two feet of its nose imbedded in the mud.

Shaded by large tropical trees, it was difficult for anyone flying overhead to penetrate through the thick foliage and see below to the swamp, but because of Steve’s weakened condition and Lefty’s refusal to leave his comrade, the men stuck it out, hoping against hope that somehow, some way they would be rescued.

For days, Graham lay upon the remains of the plane’s lower wing with the upper part shading him from the sun, a helpless, dying shadow of what was once a man, tortured inwardly from a severe, untreated wound and outwardly by thousands of mosquitoes and biting ants.

Lefty sat beside him, filthy and red with insect bites, his clothing tom to shreds due to journeys through the bushes in search of food.

“Do you feel any better, Steve?” he asked, as the same time shooing a swarm of mosquitoes away from the stricken boy’s face. “Do you think maybe I could carry you?”

The wounded pilot gazed up at his companion with a grateful look and attempted to smile weakly.

“It ain’t no use, kid! You know, the old back is pretty bad. Why don’t you beat it, though? There is a chance you might make it if you went alone. We’ve been here a whole week. They’ll never find us now.”

Lefty rose with an air of impatience and walked away, extremely hurt over the other man’s suggestion that he quit.

“Aw, don’t be a chump!”

Steve raised himself with much difficulty and rested his entire weight upon his elbow. He lifted the index finger of his other hand and motioned to the boy. “Come here, Lef,” he called, “I didn’t mean to hurt you!”

Phelps turned back and sat down once more beside the other man, fanning him with his hat and brushing away some flies.

“You know that runnin’ backward stuff?” Steve began. “I’m sorry that I razzed you, kid. Don’t let anybody ever ride you again. Say, it’s hot, ain’t it? I wish I had some water!”

Lefty reached for the canteen and held it up to the boy’s mouth but it was empty.

“There’s a pool over behind them trees,” Steve said, “I can hear it tricklin’ sometimes. Maybe the water ain’t bad there.”

Lefty picked up his helmet and raised himself to his feet. In a moment, he had disappeared behind the bushes, leaving the wounded man a helpless victim once more to the biting ants that again began to crawl over his hands and face.

The mechanic found the pool, but like the other small outlets of water about them, this one too was stagnant with filth and slime.

Without hesitation, he waded into the mud, bending over and looking at the bad water, then brushing away the scum from the top and filling his helmet to the brim.

Once more beside his friend, Phelps proceeded to bathe the boy’s head in the lukewarm water as Graham opened his eyes and pleaded for a drink.

“You can’t have that stuff, Steve; it’s filthy.”

“I don’t care,” the boy begged. “Please gimme some!”

Feebly, the wounded man forced Lefty to relent and allow him to sip the stagnant liquid from the helmet.

Completely resigned to the hopeless Fate that had enveloped them, Phelps lifted the helmet to his lips, deciding to quench his own parched thirst, irrespective of whatever the consequences might be.

Steve caught this action on the other man’s part just in time to knock the helmet from Lefty’s hand, spilling the remains on the ground before them.

“No, you don’t!” he warned. “That stuff can’t hurt me any more, but you——”

He fell off into a coma without finishing his sentence. Lefty gazed down upon him and picked up his helmet, slowly fanning the boy as he once more went into a deep sleep.

At approximately the same time, Panama’s plane came to a landing at the flying base.

He lifted his goggles and brushed the oil and dirt from his face with a soiled handkerchief, then turning to the ground man standing beside the fuselage, ordered: “Fill her up full this time!”

Major Harding, followed by Elinor and two members of his staff, approached the ship, looking up at Williams and noting the tired, drawn and wan expression plainly visible upon the man’s face.

“Better turn in,” the Major advised. “You need some sleep.”

“I’m afraid this search is becoming hopeless,” the adjutant added, much to the consternation of the determined pilot still seated in the cockpit.

“I’ve got to find them, sir!” Panama pleaded as he addressed the major, “for more reasons than one!”

Harding shook his head slowly as a shadow of despair darkened his face. “I’m afraid there isn’t a chance!”

“If you don’t mind, sir,” Williams asked, “I’d like to take one more crack at it!”

The major accepted his top sergeant’s act of insubordination with an admiring salute and turned away, leaving Elinor alone and trembling, gazing up at the determined man in the plane.

“Oh, Panama, you don’t think it’s too late, do you?”

“Now don’t worry,” he struggled to reassure her. “I haven’t half looked yet!”

“And you won’t give up, will you?”

“Me?” he asked, trying to hide his own anxiety from the girl’s searching eyes. “Say, forget about it, will you?”

Elinor raised her hand and after a moment of hesitance, allowed her fingers to touch the sleeve of the sergeant’s greasy windjammer.

“Panama,” she whispered in profound admiration, “you’re—you’re the finest man in the whole world!”

He smiled grimly as his eyes closed, dreaming in despair of a happiness that he knew could never be his.

“She’s filled to the brim!” the ground man announced, awakening Williams from his brief moment of tranquillity, then yelling as he wound up the motor: “Contact!”

Not daring to look at the girl, Panama gave the ship the gun and in another moment, was taxiing down the broad field, once more embarked upon his futile search for a man who, if he did find him, would be delivered right into the arms of the woman they both loved more than life.