The Firebird Rocket by Franklin W. Dixon Page B

surface againl
    â€œHe’s out cold!” Frank yelled. “Grab him before he disappears!”
    Joe did a seal flip that took him arching from the surface down into the depths, where he spotted Chet being dragged toward the open sea by a strong undertow. Using the breaststroke and kicking his feet hard, Joe reached his friend and pushed him to the surface. Frank splashed over, crooked an elbow under Chet’s chin, and swam on his back in the direction of the shore. Joe, who surfaced beside them, gave Frank a hand with his burden. As they touched the sand in the shallow water, Chet came to. The three stumbled onto the beach and sat down, gasping for breath.
    A lifeguard jogged across the sand. “That was a great rescue,” he complimented the Hardys. “I didn’t come in because I could see you had the situation under control.” He turned to Chet. “How do you feel?”
    Chet rubbed his head. “Okay, I guess,” he mumbled. “But I sure have a powerful headache. I’m going back to the hotel. Besides, I’m nauseated from swallowing half the Pacific.”
    He got to his feet and walked off. Frank and Joe went with him. They insisted that he see the hotel doctor, whose prognosis was that Chet would be fit again after a night’s sleep. The diagnosis was correct. Chet woke up in the morning with nothing more than tenderness on the side of his head.
    After breakfast the bus took all the passengers back to the airport, and soon they were on their way again. They flew southwest across what seemed to be an endless expanse of ocean before Samoa came into view. The boys talked to Ponsley for a while, then went back to their seats to read.
    They stopped when the stewardess served their meals. Chet ravenously dug into everything that was put in front of him, looking blissful.
    â€œChet, there’s nothing like chow to bring you back to normal,” Frank declared.
    â€œLucky the airline doesn’t have to feed you every day,” Joe needled him. “It would go broke.”
    Chet downed the last mouthful of cherry pie. “That’ll hold me for a while,” he predicted.
    The stewardess removed the trays and the boys dozed off until the plane ran into turbulence and began to wobble.
    Chet opened his eyes, slumped in his seat, and placed a hand on his belt buckle. “I don’t feel so good,” he confessed.
    As the turbulence increased, the plane bounced up and down. Chet turned pale. His freckles stood out and his eyes bulged. “What’s happening?” he muttered fearfully.
    â€œWe’re in the jetstream, that’s all,” Frank reassured him. “We’ll soon be out of it.”
    Suddenly the plane flew into a downdraft and dropped a number of feet.
    â€œWe’re gonna crash!” Chet cried. Desperately he clawed the life jacket from under his seat, slipped it on, and pulled the strings, triggering the inflation mechanism. The life jacket ballooned out, pinning Chet between the seats.
    A stewardess rushed up. “Sir, what are you doing?” she demanded.
    Chet closed his eyes and gasped. “If we survive the crash, we’ll all drown!”

CHAPTER IX
    The Porter’s Clue
    â€œNONSENSE!” the stewardess retorted sternly. “We are not going to crash!”
    Chet opened one eye. “We aren’t?”
    â€œCertainly not. Turbulence in the air is routine! You are disturbing the other passengers.”
    Frank hastily assured her that he and Joe would take care of the situation. The stewardess thanked him and moved toward the cockpit. By now the jet was flying steadily on course. Frank let the air out of the life jacket, helped Chet wriggle out of it, and stowed it under the seat.
    Chet swallowed hard and looked remorseful. “I thought we’d crash for sure,” he said.
    â€œForget it,” Joe said. “No harm done.”
    â€œGet ready for Australia, Chet,” Frank