Garry picked up his first aid kit, stowed the oars, crawled forward and tumbled to a yielding sod which, nevertheless, did not break through.

Guiding themselves by the steadily increasing succession of lightning gleams, their voices drowned in the quickly following growls of thunder, wondering about the Dragonfly, about Scott, probably aloft in the Dart, Don and Garry went from the dory, tied to a root, along a perilous and unknown path.

Don, in the van, had to part clumps of tossing, cumbering grass to test the solidity of footing before he went ahead; Garry, clutching his kit and steadying his partner when a foot would miss the sometimes narrow band of safe path, followed.

As a glare of vivid fire, followed almost instantly by a peal of angry thunder, revealed the upthrust wing of the smashed craft within a few feet, to one side, Don stopped.