CHAPTER XV

THE RESCUE ON THE LAKE

For a time the Falcon shot onward through the storm and darkness, for Tom did not want to give up.  With but a single shaded light in the pilot house, so that he could see to read the gauges and dials, telling of the condition of the machinery in the motor room, he pushed his stanch craft ahead.  At times she would be forced downward toward the angry waters of Lake Ontario, over which she was sailing, but the speed of her propellers and the buoyancy of the gas bag, would soon lift her again.

“How much longer are you going to stay?” called Ned in his chum’s ear—­called loudly, not to be heard above the noise of the airship, but above the racket of the gale.

“Oh, I guess we may as well start back,” spoke Tom, after a look at the clock on the wall.  “We can just about make our camp by daylight, and they won’t see us.”

“It won’t be light very early,” observed Mr. Whitford, looking in the pilot house from the cabin, just aft of it.  “But there is no use waiting around here any more, Tom.  They gave us a false clew, all right.”

“Bless my police badge!” cried Mr. Damon.  “They must be getting desperate.”

“I believe they are,” went on the custom officer.  “They are afraid of us, and that’s a good sign.  We’ll keep right after ’em, too.  If we don’t get ’em this week, we will next.  Better put back.”

“I will,” decided the young inventor.

“It certainly is a gale,” declared Ned, as he made his way along a dim passage, as few lights had been set aglow, for fear of the smugglers seeing the craft outlined in the air.  Now, however, when it was almost certain that they were on the wrong scent, Tom switched on the incandescents, making the interior of the Falcon more pleasant.

The giant came into the pilot house to help Tom, and the airship was turned about, and headed toward Logansville.  The wind was now sweeping from the north across Lake Ontario, and it was all the powerful craft could do to make headway against it.

There came a terrific blast, which, in spite of all that Tom and Koku could do, forced the Falcon down, dangerously close to the dashing billows.

“Hard over, Koku!” called Tom to his giant.

As the airship began to respond to the power of her propellers, and the up-tilted rudder, Tom heard, from somewhere below him, a series of shrill blasts on a whistle.

“What’s that?” he cried.

“Sounds like a boat below us,” answered Mr. Whitford.

“I guess it is,” agreed the young inventor.  “There she goes again.”

Once more came the frantic tooting of a whistle, and mingled with it could be heard voices shouting in fear, but it was only a confused murmur of sound.  No words could be made out.

“That’s a compressed air whistle!” decided Tom.  “It must be some sort of a motor boat in distress.  Quick, Mr. Whitford!  Tell Ned to switch on the searchlight, and play it right down on the lake.  If there’s a boat in this storm it can’t last long.  Even an ocean liner would have trouble.  Get the light on quick, and we’ll see what we can do!”