Seeing the direction taken by Don, Garry, using the light of the ever increasing flashes in the North, scribbled rapidly and sent a bit of paper forward.

“Going back?” he asked Don in that fashion.

As a vivid blaze of forked lightning leaped across the sky, Don nodded.

For answer Garry extended his arm, outward and downward.

The green flare, floating slowly downward, lit up the swamp beneath the Dragonfly.

Looking down, Don saw what Garry meant. The mail ’plane lay in a tangled heap of marsh grass at the edge of the lighted space. A flash of lightning picked it out more sharply.

In that more accented glimpse Don made out the twisted wings and warped outlines. For a moment the more sinister apparition which had menaced the three chums had driven the pilot of the mail ship out of Don’s mind.

He felt ashamed of his lack of consideration for a man whose airplane had gone down so swiftly. He swung back and began to drop the nose.

The floating flare died out.

Chick, still searching the skies for that dreadful phantom whose advent had robbed him of all self-control and whose unexplainable disappearance had added to, rather than diminished his terror, cried out in dismay. He wanted very much to get among people, to feel the security of human companionship among older people.

Almost at once, however, Chick’s sense of decency came to his rescue. He was glad that his remonstrating call had not been heard because of the noise made by the engine. At heart Chick had, like most impulsive youths, one of the kindest, most chivalrous, natures.

Resolutely he drove out his own selfish timidity, braced himself to ignore the shaking of his nerves and muscles.

In the glare of a bright stream of heavenly fire, Don turned a face that showed great concern.

Garry guessed the reason.

The Summer tempest, that had been prophesied by heat, humidity and the gathering thunder heads, was bearing down swiftly from the North, racing along the shore of the Sound.

Its rapid approach gave Don much uneasiness.

Wind, rain and turbulent wrench of storm could be avoided by going at once to the airport. They could set down, get the Dragonfly in the hangar, and get help to proceed by safer ways to the rescue of the pilot.

If they tried to set down in the water of the marsh, the storm might break upon them before they could rescue the fallen pilot, always supposing that they could get him out of his ship.

Garry, scribbling another note, passed it up.

Don read it in the next flicker of the intermittent lightning.

“It is dangerous to try to go down. But his life may hang on quick aid.”

Don, reading what Garry had written, nodded, kept the nose down, added a spurt of the gun to be sure of clear cylinders, and then side-slipped to lose altitude as quickly as he could. He brought the ship to a level once more, and, while Chick sent over white landing flares to help him chose his landing without risk, made contact with the water.

While the Dragonfly sped with diminishing momentum across the wide stretch of water they had formerly used, Chick and Garry were busy.

From a conveniently located small locker Chick drew out and uncoiled rope with which to secure the Dragonfly if they were not able to go aloft and escape the storm. If they had to “ride it out” he wished to be able to stake down the wings and tail, to prepare the ship as well as possible against the tear and stress of high winds. He hoped that the airplane would run close to the edge of the open water. There, he knew, was a small dock, on the widened end of which stood a small, two-room shack used by a boatman who rented his small dories for crabbing excursions into the channels of the swamp.

Garry, with quick hands, drew out a first aid kit from a pocket in his cockpit, glancing into its box to assure himself that it contained the liniments, bandages and adhesives he might need. Garry had taken a number of lessons in first aid and instinctively thought of the work of mercy he might be called upon to do.

Don, maneuvering the Dragonfly up to as close proximity to the old dock as the safety of wings and propeller would allow, signaled to Chick and called for one more white flare.

Dropping the floating light into the water, to augment for them the illumination provided by the almost incessant flickers of lightning, Chick sprang up, and began to climb out on a brace and the wing-step at one side while Don balanced him on the other.

Expertly Don caught the rope end.

It was plainly to be seen that the storm would be down upon them before they could take off safely and get high enough to avoid the moiling currents of the stormy area. Bringing the ship as close to the dock as he could, by flinging a bight of the rope over a dock piling, Don let the wind drift its tail outward. Chick, on his side, clambered carefully forward across the lower wing until he could fling his part of the rope over another wooden upright.

Quickly, but carefully, they worked the ship around so that it was sheltered somewhat by the dock planking and to the leeward of the old house.

By climbing out to the wingtip, gingerly so as not to injure the fabric and with each movement setting his weight on the supporting framework, Chick, his terrors forgotten in action, held a flying wire with one hand, bent far outward, and managed to get his fingers over the gunwale of a dory tied under the wharf.

He drew against the pull of the wind until he could get the dory and the low wingtip close enough together to enable him to step across.

Swiftly he untied the painter of the boat while Garry aided Don to use every available inch of their rope in securing the Dragonfly against the pull and thrust of wind, the tossing waves that must soon fling the ship to and fro.

Their tasks completed, Don and Garry, one on the wharf planks, the other balancing the light flying craft, waited until Chick could scull the dory close alongside the fuselage.

There he stepped back onto the wing bracing, steadying the dory as Garry and Don entered it.

“Hang on!” he urged, as Don caught a bracing wire to keep the two craft together, using his hand to fend off the rub of wood against the Dragonfly’s fabric body. “I’ll break into the shack and get oars.”

Agile, supple, quick, Chick clambered to the planks.

He ran around the small building, old, dilapidated, weather-worn.

The door, he recalled from earlier visits, was toward the more solid shore a hundred yards beyond, from which a narrow runway enabled visitors to cross deep, mud-bottomed channels.

To Chick’s surprise, the door stood ajar!

He dashed in, waited until a flash of the swiftly coming electrical storm gave him light, located the racks of oars at one side, secured a pair and hurried out.

“Take flares!” he urged. “You might need to signal. I’ll stay here!” He was anxious to make amends for his earlier weakness by braving the storm, guarding the Dragonfly as best he could, in spite of the spooky look of that open door of the deserted interior of the shack.

Agreeing, as soon as they had secured the signal lights, Don and Garry sculled for all they were worth, got the dory away from the airplane, and then took their places, rowing hard for the stricken shape of the mail ’plane half way down the Southern shore.

Chick hastily went from post to post, making certain that their knotted ropes were secure.

Then he turned back to the old hovel.

Hoarse and angry, the thunder rumbled, ever louder.

Across the water, in the dying light of the last flare they had ignited, he could see Don and Garry, their bodies rising and bending in rapid rhythms as they put all their strength behind the oars on their rescue errand.

The door of the shack, when Chick came to it again, stood as before.

He hurried in.

The wind began to blow in short, sharp puffs. A vivid fork of light thrust its fire from cloud to earth. A crash and rumble followed.

Chick shivered; but it was not from fear of the storm.

Somewhere within that small boathouse came a low moan! Hollow, hard to locate, it chilled Chick’s very marrow.

He braced his shaken nerves, standing just inside the doorway, his presence hidden from peering eyes by some old oilskins behind which he had hurriedly dodged.

A glare of burning air, a blue-white bolt of fire, threw the inside of the place into brightness akin to day.

In that flash Chick’s eyes caught the huddle of a body in a corner.

At first terrified, then made calm by the thought that it must be the mail ’plane pilot who had managed to crawl along the swamp edge to shelter in the old place and needed instant attention, Chick crossed the room.

As he did so a glare of light more vivid than the others showed him for a fleeting instant the face of the man lying in a heap.

“Doc Morgan!” Chick cried out in amazement. “Doc”——

The man was a sort of general helper around the airport, not very keen of wit, nor deft of hand; he aided when ships had to be trundled out of the hangar, and swept up the yards, and did other odd jobs.

“Doc” had earned his nickname because he was always gathering herbs which he maintained were of great medicinal value. Curiously enough, the concoctions he administered to the amused airport personnel often proved to be very helpful. Therefore “Doc” was forgiven his dull wit and liked for his good nature.

But what was he doing there, in the supposably untenanted boat shack?

Morgan stirred, groaned. Chick bent down, “‘Doc’—are you hurt?”

The man stirred again, and then Chick, with a stare, moved back a step. The man was muttering. An empty bottle, reeking as did his breath with the odor of cheap alcohol, gave the clue to his condition.

A fierce gust of wind swept through the place before it banged the door against its frame with a crash that made Chick jump. Before the slam of the door shut out the fire of a bolt that came close, Chick saw a bit of paper caught up by the draft and sent through the air. He ran to the door, threw it wide, turned, and, waiting for the next gust, and its accompanying flash, he located the paper—secured it—caught sight of its marked surface, thin, inked lines on light tracing paper—and cried out, in disgust.

“You traitor! You’ve taken some of the plans for the new all-metal ship! This is one! Where are the others?”