Ronny had been certain his father would take charge of things. He was splendid. His voice was loud and confident and reassuring. Only Ronny could not make himself believe that nothing was the matter. Things looked bad to him. Bill’s face told him the same thing, slipping and splashing back along the wet fuselage, like a whale back, low in the water. The water was rapidly filling the cockpit. There wasn’t any use being too cheerful, Ronny was thinking, climbing up to sit crouched uncomfortably on the back of the seat. His father and Gloria did it, laughing. But Mrs. Kinney had to be helped up and then held, perched precariously, her round dismayed eyes still fixed on the coming water. Colonel Kinney held her, with his ruddy face turning a curious congested purple. Ronny saw suddenly that the Kinneys were afraid, and he was sorry for them. It was dreadful to be afraid. The plane had sunk with the weight of water in the cockpit, but now it seemed not to be sinking any more. Bill scrambled wetly up beside Ronny and spoke to the others, “This isn’t so good, folks, but it isn’t so bad. The old bus is knocked out, but it can’t sink any more and we’re not so far from Bimini now. We may even drift quite near, the way the stream runs. Somebody’s sure to pick us up almost any minute, because we’re in the direct line of boats from Miami to Bimini and they’ll report by and by that we haven’t arrived. All we’ve got to do now is hang on.” His glance met Ronny’s on the last words, and Ronny saw that in spite of his cheerful, matter-of-fact voice, his eyes were wide and unwinking. Ronny’s own eyes were like that. As they stared at each other for a long moment, Ronny felt a sudden warmth of understanding and comradeship leap between them. After all, Bill was not so very much older than he was, for all the weathered maturity of his face. That glance linked them, by their youth, by their common ability to look at the situation, without too much fear or too much optimism. These others must be protected at all costs. “Are you with me?” said Bill’s glance to Ronny, and Ronny’s answered instantly, “You betcha life.” Bill withdrew his gaze abruptly to unlace his shoes and take them off. Ronny did the same, glad to feel his toes free in the water. He watched one shoe float a minute and then go over the side in a slap of water from a running wave. Bill was plucking up the wet cushions from the seats below the water. “They’ll float,” he said briefly. “You hang on to this one, Mrs. Kinney. And listen here. The backs of these seats are going to get awfully uncomfortable in about a minute. It would be easier if we all got down on the fuselage, even if it is partly in the water. Then the ladies can hang on to these cushions, too. That’s right, isn’t it, sir?”