At a couple or three thousand feet altitude, the "Golden Hind" was in pure clear air, but in the brief twilight the banks of mist as viewed from above were picturesque in the extreme. But to the crew of the "Golden Hind" the picturesqueness of the scene was in a measure unappreciated. They were nearing land, and a fog was one of the most undesirable climatic conditions. Not only was time a consideration, but the petrol supply was running low. But for this, Fosterdyke would have slowed down and cruised around until the mists dispersed with daybreak. "We’ll have to risk it and make a descent," he declared. "Anywhere within easy distance of Panama will do, because it is a calm night and there will be little or no risk of the ’Golden Hind’ being exposed to a high wind. Thank goodness we’ve directional wireless." At length Fosterdyke felt convinced that the "Golden Hind" was nearing Panama. He had arranged by wireless to detonate three explosive rockets, and the United States Air Station was to reply with a similar signal, while searchlights, directed vertically, would enable the airship to locate the landing-ground. "Hanged if I can see any searchlights," exclaimed Bramsdean. "Killed by the mist," explained the baronet. "I fancy I see a blurr of light two points on our port bow. What’s that, Truscott?" The wireless operator had left his cabin and was standing behind Fosterdyke as the latter was peering through the darkness. "There’s a jam for some reason," announced Truscott. "For the last five minutes I’ve been calling up Panama, but there’s nothin’ doin’. A high-powered installation, using the same metre-wave, is cutting in. I asked them to knock off, but they haven’t done so." "Inconsiderate blighters!" exclaimed Fosterdyke. "Never mind, Truscott, we can get along all right now. I fancy I can see the aerodrome lights." "Yes, sir," agreed Kenyon. "One point on our port bow now." "Then fire the rockets," ordered the baronet, at the same time telegraphing for the motors to be declutched. Three vivid flashes rent the darkness, their brilliance illuminating a wide area of the fog-bank a thousand feet below, while the report echoed over the level line of misty vapour like a continuous peal of thunder. Within a minute of the discharge of the third rocket two bursts of flame, accompanied by sharp reports, occurred at a distance of less than a quarter of a mile of the "Golden Hind’s" port quarter, while after an interval of fifteen seconds three more exploded simultaneously in the same direction. "Guess Uncle Sam can’t count," remarked Kenyon, imitating to perfection the nasal drawl of the typical New Englander. "Looks to me like shrapnel," added Bramsdean. "Judging by the way the smoke mushroomed, it reminds me of Archies over the Hun lines." "Good enough, we’ll drop gently," decided Fosterdyke. "Stand by with the holding-down lines and have a couple of grapnels ready."