CHAPTER XVII
HARDY STRIKES A HOT TRAIL
The morning of the day before, when Hardy had got the peevish doctor in place and had taken his own seat in the airplane, he steered his bird off from Roanoke Island in what, by no stretch of fancy, could be called flying-weather. The wind was freshening to a gale and the waters of the Sound were choppy and ugly-looking. But, even if the pilot had to play hide and seek in the storm-clouds, the emergency admitted of no hesitation, and, after all, it was merely a question of a very few minutes' flying. So the venturesome airman gritted his teeth, clamped his rod, and with the machine swaying to and fro in the sweep and swelter and with wings at times perilously tipped, plunged into the teeth of the tempest.
As Windjammer approached the sea, the going became more and more hazardous; but the inevitable luck of the pilot warranted his confidence. He soon hovered over his goal, and, after
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