“Not so fast! You’re driving too fast!” said Mrs. “The Old Man’ll get us through,” they said to one another. 3 turret!” The crew, bending to their various tasks in the huge, hurtling eight-engined Navy hydroplane, looked at each other and grinned. He walked over and twisted a row of complicated dials. The Commander stared at the ice forming on the pilot window. “Throw the power lights! Rev her up to 8,500! We’re going through!” The pounding of the cylinders increased: ta-pocketa-pocketa-pocketa- pocketa-pocketa. It’s spoiling for a hurricane, if you ask me.” “I’m not asking you, Lieutenant Berg,” said the Commander. He wore his full dress uniform, with the heavily braided white cap pulled down rakishly over one cold gray eye. “WE’RE GOING THROUGH!” The Commander’s voice was like tin ice breaking.
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