On he went, carefully watching his instruments, and trying to figure his position from moment to moment. Now he felt sure he was past the mountains beyond Bellefonte and flying over the lovely Penn’s Valley. In a few minutes he was approaching Woodward Pass. He pictured Winkelblech Mountain rearing its great bulk directly in the line of his flight, where he should turn to the right and shoot through the pass. But to-night he was not shooting passes. He was thousands of feet above the pass. Suddenly, for the merest fraction of a second, he thought he saw a gleam of light. It must have been the beacon on Winkelblech, he thought, shining through some rift in the fog. In a few moments he knew he must be past the mountains and sailing over the beautiful Buffalo Valley. But only his instruments told him so. Below him he could see nothing but fog. Ahead of him lay more mountains—wicked ones, too, through the great reaches of the anthracite coal field, where the earth is as rough and rugged as the outside of a black walnut shell. But the furrows in the earth are great mountain ridges, and the wrinkles are hills and precipices. On he flew, following the radio beacon intently, watching his time, calculating his position. He could see absolutely nothing. He wanted to see nothing but the instruments before him, for it was almost terrifying to look out into the fog. His instruments seemed friendly to him. Now he felt sure he was over Sunbury. One hour more would bring him to Hadley Field, for it was exactly 150 miles between the two points. In half an hour, three quarters of an hour at most, the worst part of the trip would be over. The Pennsylvania mountains would be passed, and underfoot would lie the flat agricultural lands of New Jersey, where he might hope to land in safety if he were forced down, though there seemed to be little chance of that. He rushed on through the night. Ahead of him, he knew, the country was far less rugged for a distance. The mountains melted into hills of perhaps eight hundred feet elevation, and there were many farms and smooth fields. But soon after he should pass Elysburg, just ahead, the land would rise up sharp again, in hills twelve hundred feet high. Beyond them was lower land once more, and then the ridges climbed up, just before Ringtown was reached, until their summits towered two thousand feet aloft. Little did Jimmy care about that. He was far, far above them. The mountains meant nothing to him. Already the marker beacon at Numidia was sounding in his ears. Soon, now, he would be entirely past the mountains.