Thinking about this terrifying problem the two fliers remained silent. But just after the amphibian had flown past Boston Harbor, Tom pointed out a mountainous fog bank lying ahead.
“That’s bad news!” Bud cried. “Guess we’ll have to climb over it.”
“I’ll call the Weather Bureau and ask about the fog,” Tom replied.
The bureau reported that the treacherous “soup” had closed in over the whole coast line from Nova Scotia down and extended several miles inland. It would not burn off for hours.
Tom switched off the radio and took the plane above the dense vapor. When they reached the area
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where he planned to come down, Tom began to lose altitude. The fog was so thick that the boys could not see more than two feet ahead. Tom set the automatic pilot.
“By dead reckoning we’re almost there,” he observed presently. “I have a hunch we’re just a bit to the east of our cove and about ten miles out in the bay.”
“Think you’ll be able to set her down in this stuff?” Bud asked.
“It’s too risky on instruments,” Tom said, worried. “But look, Bud!”
Up ahead a rift in the fog showed the water below. Tom instantly banked through the hole. A moment later the hull bit into the cold, sullen Atlantic.
“You did it, Tom!”
The two boys breathed sighs of relief as the amphibian churned through the water. They had gone only a hundred feet, however, when there was a fearful ripping sound outside the plane.
Both boys were hurled to the floor of the cabin, and the amphibian was jerked about as if it had been hooked by a giant grapple. It flopped over on one side, and the cabin began to fill with sea water. Tom cut the engine and reached up to open the door.