Poodle clutched the sides of his seat. He saw his feet up as high as his head, and felt as though he were falling backwards. He gasped, and before he had finished gasping, his heart missed a beat. For—still standing on her tail—the _Hustle_ was caught in a terrible flaw of wind, and hurled a hundred feet up into the air. A breaker had brought in a draft that, shooting up through a treacherous gap in the cliffs, became a treacherous whirlwind. Hike’s heart thumped, too. He wished that Martin Priest were at the levers. But he kept hold of himself. He turned down the elevating planes; then raised them slightly, then shot them down again; and rode over the column of lifting air into a calm space. He swung back to the wreck, determined to make quicker work of the rest of the rescue. The waves were increasing and the yacht could not stand much more. He beckoned Poodle, and shouted to him “Going to land on yacht. You drop off first time I circle. Here, take revolver—my back pocket. If people scared, threaten ’em. Make ’em pile planks so I can land. Make ’em get in—all of ’em—when I land. Make ’em stay quiet when I start.” “All r-r-r-right.” They circled over the yacht. Poodle, the revolver in his teeth, slid down the dangling rope and fell on the slippery sloping deck of the yacht. Along her terribly listed hull, water was running free. Poodle clung to the lower rail, pulled off his socks and his trim fashionable tan shoes, and staggered up the deck. The group of thirteen men (all the women were off) watched him curiously. Not one, except a cabin-boy, of these people, but what was many years older than plump Poodle. Any one of the sturdy Norwegian sailors could have broken him in two. But when he yelled “Pile up these boats—tear up that wrecked wheelhouse—make landing stage for aeroplane,” they jumped to obey. With Poodle tugging at planks beside the gold-braided sailing-master and a ragged fireman in overalls, with even the cabin-boy climbing along the wet deck in his drenched white jacket, they hastily piled a rude platform, with a capstan for support. Hike was hovering in long easy circles, overhead. When Poodle waved and shouted, Hike swung astern, and came down, with the motor stopped. Slipping and skidding on the wet planking, the _Hustle_ went clean off the platform, and plunged toward the sea, while the sailors shrieked in horror. A great wave broke on the wreck, and covered the aeroplane with a cloud of spray, but through it Hike glided, started his motor, circled about, constantly rising, then again stopped his motor and planed down, easily, landing on the farther edge of the rough platform. He was hoarse from shouting through the roar of motor and waves, but as Poodle rushed up to him, with his round face shining with gladness—and spray!—Hike croaked, “Run out planks—runway.” On blocks and boxes, the crew propped up planks along which the wheels of the _Hustle’s_ chassis could run in starting. “Get ’em in—_all_!” shouted Hike.