Major Harding, followed by Elinor and two members of his staff, approached the ship, looking up at Williams and noting the tired, drawn and wan expression plainly visible upon the man’s face. “Better turn in,” the Major advised. “You need some sleep.” “I’m afraid this search is becoming hopeless,” the adjutant added, much to the consternation of the determined pilot still seated in the cockpit. “I’ve got to find them, sir!” Panama pleaded as he addressed the major, “for more reasons than one!” Harding shook his head slowly as a shadow of despair darkened his face. “I’m afraid there isn’t a chance!” “If you don’t mind, sir,” Williams asked, “I’d like to take one more crack at it!” The major accepted his top sergeant’s act of insubordination with an admiring salute and turned away, leaving Elinor alone and trembling, gazing up at the determined man in the plane. “Oh, Panama, you don’t think it’s too late, do you?” “Now don’t worry,” he struggled to reassure her. “I haven’t half looked yet!” “And you won’t give up, will you?” “Me?” he asked, trying to hide his own anxiety from the girl’s searching eyes. “Say, forget about it, will you?” Elinor raised her hand and after a moment of hesitance, allowed her fingers to touch the sleeve of the sergeant’s greasy windjammer. “Panama,” she whispered in profound admiration, “you’re—you’re the finest man in the whole world!” He smiled grimly as his eyes closed, dreaming in despair of a happiness that he knew could never be his. “She’s filled to the brim!” the ground man announced, awakening Williams from his brief moment of tranquillity, then yelling as he wound up the motor: “Contact!” Not daring to look at the girl, Panama gave the ship the gun and in another moment, was taxiing down the broad field, once more embarked upon his futile search for a man who, if he did find him, would be delivered right into the arms of the woman they both loved more than life. CHAPTER XIX When Steve awoke from his coma, it was late afternoon. He had been lying there, silent and unconscious, for more than twelve hours. He looked about for Lefty but the boy was nowhere in sight. An army of vicious ants were crawling over his hands and legs, leaving large, ugly and painful red welts in their wake. The boy’s face became a contorted mass of fear and suffering as he raised himself to his elbow and shouted the name of his companion. At the sound of Steve’s voice, Lefty, who had been picking wild berries from near-by bushes, came running back to the wrecked plane and bent over beside the boy, brushing away the ants and wiping the perspiration from his brow. “Help me, help me, Lefty!” Steve cried out dismally, “I can’t stand it—I can’t!” The mechanic pulled the limp boy to the other side of the wing, placing his own windjammer under Steve’s head as a pillow, leaving himself exposed now to the swarm of crawling ants that were already upon the sleeve of his shirt.