Chapter XVIII: In the Grip of the Storm

The attack of the wind was sudden beyond all precedent in the experience of the young aviators.

It was as though the demon of the storm had counted on surprise and had hoped to accomplish the destruction of the _Hope_ at one blow before the aviators could rally their confused senses to combat it.

One moment the _Hope_ had been flying on an even keel. The next, it had completely reversed its position, and the occupants found themselves flying head downward.

The straps that held Slim Tyler in the pilot's seat stretched and strained, but did not break.

His comrades were not so fortunate. Jerry Marbury was for a moment literally standing on his head. Then he fell down heavily, grasping an iron bolt, to which he clung with the tenacity of a drowning man.

Dick Mylert was flung out of the plane and would have gone hurtling to the waters beneath if his hands, flung about wildly, had not grasped the side of the fuselage. There he hung suspended while the wind tore at him, trying to loosen his grasp.

"Hold on, Dick! For the love of Pete, hold on!" screamed Jerry, as his senses cleared and he saw his companion's frightful plight.

He crawled close to his imperiled comrade, clutched his wrists, and by a tremendous effort pulled him in to safety.

Slim Tyler was fighting desperately to regain control of the plane and bring her right side up. It was a herculean task, as she had already started on her downward plunge.

A lesser pilot would have lost his head and his doom would have been sealed then and there. But Slim Tyler kept his nerve, and by consummate craftsmanship finally brought the plane to its normal position.

The first onslaught had been met and repelled, but others followed, and the aviators found themselves in a wild turmoil of the elements. The wind was blowing with all the force of a tornado. It beat and tore at the plane as though it would rend it into shreds. The howling of the storm drowned the roar of the motors. It was a terrible demonstration of nature's unbridled fury.

Yet in that awful welter, Slim Tyler's hand at the control never faltered. His pulses were steady, his heart undaunted.

With masterly skill he jockeyed the plane, driving here, banking there, trying to present the least vulnerable surface to the blow, making the wind at times his ally, again challenging it to do its worst.

He darted upward in an attempt to find a quieter strata of air, but found that he gained nothing by the change. Then he sought lower altitudes, coming down at times so close to the water that he heard its roar and was sprinkled with its spray.

But wherever he went it was the same. The gale was out to find a victim, and it seemed to exercise a demoniac cunning in thwarting every effort of its prey to escape.

To keep on their projected path was of course out of the question. All that mattered now was saving the plane and with it their own lives. If they perished, the course did not matter. If they survived, they could easily find it again.

Over that great angry waste of waters, the _Hope_ flew on, a mere speck in immensity, while its imperiled occupants never knew what moment might be their last.

For one thing Slim Tyler was grateful. He had repaired the stabilizer before the storm started. If he had been delayed until the gale was upon them, nothing on earth could have saved them from certain death.

Luckily, there was no lightning. They were too far north for that, and thus they were spared one peril that had so nearly brought to naught the journey to South America.

For more than an hour the storm raged with the greatest fury. Then it began to subside. It died away in fitful gusts that came at longer and longer intervals and finally ceased altogether, although the agitated air rocked up and down like the waves of the ocean after a gale.

Slim Tyler's tense grip on the controls relaxed. Despite the bitter cold, he was drenched with perspiration from the terrific strain he had undergone.

"I've been on many a ship in a gale," breathed Dick Mylert, "but I've never been shaken up and tossed about like this. I feel like a scrambled egg."

"You brought her through wonderfully, Slim," said Jerry, clapping his friend on the shoulder. "Where do you think we are?"

"Search me," replied Slim. "I'll try to figure it out as soon as I can get my breath. If those clouds break away and let the moon shine through again, you can get out your instruments and we'll check up on the figures. I've tried to keep her in an easterly direction as far as I could, but in this hullabaloo she's been dancing round to all points of the compass."

But the clouds obstinately refused to break away. They had contained more than wind. Half an hour had not elapsed before snow began to fall.

The storm came first in scattered flakes, then in a thick cloud, then in blinding sheets. It plastered the windows of the cockpit. It lay in a heavy blanket on the body of the plane. It coated the broad wings, weighing them down.

Every additional ounce that weighted the plane weighted Slim Tyler's heart as well.

For the plane was losing buoyancy and sinking lower and lower with every ten minutes that passed.

She was like an overloaded ship, wallowing in the trough of the sea when she ought to have been cleaving her way through it.

Slim banked and dived and rose and sideslipped in the effort to shake the snow from the wings. Had it been of the powdery variety, he might have succeeded. But it was wet and stuck to the wings like glue.

"Going through a good many stunts, aren't you, Slim?" asked Dick Mylert lightly. He had no idea of the gravity of the situation. "What is this, anyway? A flying circus?"

"Something far different from that," answered Slim soberly. "The wings are carrying so much snow that the _Hope_ is getting too tired to fly."

"Is that so?" exclaimed the reporter, his airy manner vanishing instantly. "Does that mean that there's danger of her going down?"

"Exactly that, if the snow keeps falling," affirmed Slim. "I have all I can do now to keep her aloft. There must be half a ton of snow on her wings now. And half a ton is a thousand pounds."

"If this keeps up, we'll have to throw some of our cargo overboard to lighten the plane," declared Jerry.

"Possibly," admitted Slim. "Spare parts, tools, even food, if necessary. Lucky if we keep our shirts. But even that is better than drowning."

As if to emphasize that sinister word, the roar of the waves beneath grew louder.