Читать книгу Mark Gilmore, Speed Flyer - Percy Keese Fitzhugh - Страница 4

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Mark did everything with a sort of reckless frenzy. So now he guided the plane through that impenetrable fog in its almost headlong descent. It was like him, too, neither to care nor wonder into what abysmal pit of death this foolhardy impulse might bring them. His particular thought was that they should not desert their fellow airman in his distress.

For a few moments the blinding headlights showed nothing but fog bank after fog bank. Mark’s fingers were icy, and Arty sat tense and silent. They were thinking that because of this stranger, in a second, life would very likely end for them both.

Fate, however, had other plans, and life for them was destined to continue in the uneven tenor of its way. Mark espied in that momentous second a familiar blackness, the earth yawning silently below. The fog was now above them and rapidly drifting heavenward like some gigantic veil suddenly cast aside.

Mark’s next move was decisive, for the Kent D-2 swooped forward, flattened itself against the dark horizon, then drifted quite noiselessly to the ground.

The blinding headlights swept the welcome earth before the wheels gripped its solid substance, yet a curious gurgle issued from Arty’s throat when first they felt the familiar bumping beneath them. Mark laughed aloud.

“What’s the matter, Art?”

“Never thought we’d make it—couldn’t believe it, that’s all,” the other answered with no little relief in his voice. “Phew!”

Mark was on his feet as soon as the plane came to a full stop. He threaded his way through the cabin with Arty close at his heels. “Grab a flashlight,” he said, “we may need it.”

A damp, muggy breeze greeted them as they stepped down and Mark was aware at once of the soft, soggy condition of the ground underfoot. “Swampy,” he observed.

Arty plied the flashlight around the tail of the plane. “I was pretty certain it would be, Red. Nothing back here,” he shouted. “Not a house from the looks....”

A faint cry startled them. Mark rushed around the plane to the left. “Came from this way,” he cried. “The light, Art—you might know I’d have had to bring her down with the lights facing the wrong way. Well....”

Arty’s light fell upon more swamp, a seemingly endless stretch of it. They stumbled and ran a few yards until the cry came again, stronger and distinct. “Help!” came the plea.

Its echo seemed to linger among some high grass, northwest of where they were searching. In a bound they were in it, shouting as they went. The echoes of their own cries beat about the tall wet grass and though no answering cry came they kept on, sinking into the mire up to their ankles. Once, Mark felt his forward foot come in contact with something and instinctively jumped. Arty’s light disclosed a copperhead, coiled up and peacefully slumbering.

They laughed nervously and plunged ahead and after a few minutes, Mark beat the last of the stinging, dank weeds away from his face. The ground sloped down from their feet and suddenly they realized that they were standing upon a river embankment. Shadowy waters lapped upon its sides and gurgled away into the black night.

Mark grasped Arty’s shoulder and pointed to a telltale grayish outline that was bobbing merrily downstream. A bit of airplane wing stuck out of the muddy waters at a crazy angle and clinging to it was the still form of a young man. At sight of the gleaming light he raised his head slightly, seemingly too dazed to speak.

Mark divested himself of his jacket and helmet and kicked off his shoes. A moment later, his tall slim body had cleaved the muddy water and Arty held his breath until he saw the head of his friend come up a few feet distant.

“O.K.?” he called anxiously.

“Yep,” answered Mark cheerfully. “Don’t worry—just give us lots of light!”

Arty did that with a will, holding on to the cool metal with taut fingers. He had seen at first glance that Mark would have not a little trouble in rescuing the young man, for the floating wreckage had a buoyancy that kept pace with the tumbling current.

Mark, too, was aware of this presently and found that he had an added difficulty in fighting a curious cross current. Also, a great deal of driftwood was a further impediment but after a few minutes of uncertainty the fickle current suddenly decided in his favor.

He was literally swept toward the wreckage and needed but a few hearty strokes to reach out and grasp the bewildered young man. At that juncture, Arty’s light swept upon them and to Mark’s consternation he realized that it was Richie Benson whom he was rescuing.

His gasp brought Benson out of his daze. He looked up at his rescuer, startled. “You?” he asked in thick, frightened tones.

“Just me,” Mark answered with genuine relief. “Not hurt?”

Benson shook his head. “I—I’m in a fog, that’s all,” he stammered. Then, complainingly, he added: “You know I can’t swim, Mark, you know....”

“Of course, of course,” Mark said in his most cheerful voice. He flung his arm about the fellow and in a second was paddling energetically back toward the shore.