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<h2 id="c33">CHAPTER XXXIII A BATTLE ABOVE THE CLOUDS</h2> Hour after hour, into a North wind that cut down their forward mileage somewhat, Larry held the airplane. He flew low, in order to hold the coastline of the ocean, because he did not dare try to navigate, inexperienced as he was, with no practice at “blind flying” above the clouds. Thunderstorms menaced, but always they were to the inland side, and Larry did not have to pass through them, or climb above them and lose his way. Boston, easily recognized for its expanse and illumination, as well as by the name-markers on certain roofs, painted there by air-minded owners, finally came into view. They circled until Larry located the large airport there. Noting its white boundary lights, its red warnings, its windsock to give him the direction of the air currents, he circled the field several times, to be sure he would not foul any other ship, and to see if any signal would be sent him. <div class="pagenum" id="Page_264">264</div> Presently, after a commercial freight carrier had taken off, he got two red lights, a signal to land, and as the field was wonderfully well lighted, and he had learned to judge distance from the ground well, Larry was repaid for his self-control and confidence and care by making a perfect three-point landing. Mr. Whiteside’s explanations seemed to clear away need for formality. While they were gassing up the airplane, he went to the administration building and chatted with the field manager. “The others are still ahead of us,” he reported to Larry and Dick as they munched a hurried meal and drank hot coffee, also securing additional flying togs to supplement what they had. “I wonder how much we’ve caught up on them,” Larry said. “Well, the amphibian stayed only a few minutes, and it wasn’t gone five minutes before the other one came in——” “A two-place biplane?” asked Larry. Mr. Whiteside nodded. It remained only to get information, he stated, and then went up. <div class="pagenum" id="Page_265">265</div> “Oh, dear,” he finished. “I gave Tommy orders to ride down Jeff if he had to, in order to stop him, and to get him arrested. I wish I could stop him!” “Who was in the first ’plane?” Dick asked. “Sandy was there—they saw a boy, and Jeff got him some gloves; and they seemed surprisingly friendly.” “That means that Jeff is innocent and has made friends with Sandy; but where is the woman?” Answering Dick, Mr. Whiteside explained. “She was in the second airplane.” “With Tommy!” exclaimed Larry. “Then he’s the one we want to catch, as well as to save Jeff and Sandy from being driven down.” They wasted no time. Friendly pilots, considering Larry such a boy aviator as Bobby Buck had proved to be, gave him some instructions that were most valuable, concerning night flying. The wind would be dead ahead, for most of his trip toward Maine, and he could check his direction by that until he had to veer to the West of North, when the wind, quartering, would drift him off the course—but they gave him rough corrections, and advised him to get above the clouds that were bearing down on Boston—local thunder storms. <div class="pagenum" id="Page_266">266</div> Once more the low-wing craft took the air, climbed to a good height, Larry used his instructions, got the nose into the wind and drove ahead. Slowly, as the distance behind them increased, their distance behind the other two ships grew less. Minute by minute they cut their handicap. Dick strained his eyes ahead, and to either side, watchful, eager. He said almost nothing into the Gossport tube he had at his lips. Larry knew his business: Dick wore the instructor’s part of the outfit only because it was the only helmet they could get at the start. Under them black clouds, torn by vivid streaks of blue-white light, reeled backward, their tops tumbling and tossing. Above them the night sky shone serene, with the full moon, just nicked by the curve of old Mother earth, riding higher and higher. That was a glorious picture, had any one of them had the wish to enjoy it. But they were intent on much more important sights than that of a lovely sky. “Flying lights ahead—” Dick spoke excitedly into the Gossport tube. “Two sets—” he added. Larry moved the throttle forward as far as it would go. He peered ahead. <div class="pagenum" id="Page_267">267</div> “Yes! There they are! Just a little below our level.” Closer and closer they approached. The two airplanes were vividly visible in the bright light reflected upward also from the fleecy tops of wind-tossed cloud. “They’re stunting—” Dick gasped. “No—not stunting,” Larry forgot his voice would not reach Dick. “They’re maneuvering.” It was clear to him. The amphibian, easily identified by its clumsy, bulky looking trucks, with the pontoons slung to braces, was trying to get away from a relentless biplane which sought to overtop it, to ride down onto its tail, force it down. Two war pilots fought it out above the clouds! In the airplane with one sat a woman whose presence marked him for a dangerous character, after the Everdail emeralds. Behind the other pilot sat one of the Sky Patrol, at the mercy of a devilishly minded adversary, and he was as helpless to save himself as Larry and Dick were to aid him! Larry, thinking of that, but hoping against hope that for all his lack of experience he might see some opportunity to stop the other man, banked moderately and began to circle. They watched, breathlessly. <div class="pagenum" id="Page_268">268</div> The amphibian, under Jeff’s adroit piloting, side-slipped from under its danger. “Good!” panted Dick, unaware that his voice carried through the tube to Larry, who nodded. “He’s trying to climb higher,” added Dick. “But he can’t outclimb the biplane, unless—” Larry breathed a prayer of thanksgiving. Sandy was all right, saved for the time being from danger of being driven down. A bright idea struck Dick. “Listen, Larry,” he said into his tube. “If we could fly level with the amphibian, I could use my flashlight to flick a message to Sandy, and tell him to lower the life preserver while we fly directly under his craft, until we catch it and pull it into our ship.” Larry nodded. With his flashlight flicking the dots and dashes of the Morse code to Sandy, Dick spelt out a message explaining his idea. Twice he flashed the message, got an O. K. from Sandy, and told Larry. <div class="pagenum" id="Page_269">269</div> There were some preparations on the other skycraft, then Larry dropped the nose of his plane and went down a few feet. The amphibian flew over them, high enough so its hanging pontoons would not scrape their craft, and as the cockpits were low, it could drop fairly close. Sandy leaned out, a doughnut of white came shaking and swinging at the end of a rope. Dick braced himself, safety belt snapped tight, arms extended upward. Larry held his ship at flying speed and level. Once an air shift dipped the amphibian dangerously low, but Larry saw it coming and dived ten feet, then leveled again. Once more they tried to jockey into position. Dick saw the doughnut swing toward him, threw his head back to avoid the blow, but it struck his chest. With a grunt, his arms closed and he clung. Sandy, feeling the tug of the rope, let go. Dick dragged in the rope to prevent it from flying back into the empennage, fouling the tail assembly—and they had the preserver. Then Dick shouted a warning. Larry dived. Tommy was coming at them. <div class="pagenum" id="Page_270">270</div> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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