"Fog," he exclaimed. "What a bit of bad luck."
"It's just as bad for the others," Peggy reminded him.
"Have you got your course?" asked Jess anxiously.
"Yes. Almost due east. But in this dense mist it will be hard to come
close enough to the lighthouse to be reported without the danger of
dashing into it."
"Are you going to try for it?"
"Of course," was the brief reply. Peggy slowed down the engine. The
_Golden Butterfly_ now seemed to be gliding silently through lonely
billows of white sea fog. It was an uncanny feeling. The occupants of the
machine felt a chilling sense of complete isolation.
Thanks to their barograph, however, they could judge their height above
the sea.
"Good thing we've got it," commented Jimsy; "otherwise we might have a
thrilling encounter with the topmasts of some schooner."
"I only wish we had some instrument to show us where the other aeroplanes
are," said Peggy; "it's hard to hear anything in this fog."
"Maybe it will clear off," suggested Jess hopefully.
"Not unless we get some wind," opined Jimsy; "queer how quick that wind
dropped and this smother came up."
Nobody even hinted at the deadly danger they were in. But each occupant of
the _Golden Butterfly_ knew it full well. Except for the compass, they had
no way of guiding their flight, and to turn about would have been to court
disaster.
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