"This speed ought to bring us in by twelve-thirty—a good half-hour ahead of our limit,—so there's no need of rushing matters," said John, to which sentiment his comrades agreed.
By eleven o'clock all were keenly on the look-out. Each flyer coveted the honor of being the first one to see the coastline of Central America, the resting-place of Panama.
Paul, with the binoculars to his eyes, was the one to win. It was just exactly 11:25 when he shouted in true mariner's style: "Land ho, my hearties!"
Taking the glass, one by one his comrades gladly echoed the announcement.
But suddenly Bob's face turned chalky. "Jiminy, fellows," he cried, "what boneheads we are! We have been figuring on San Cristobal time all the while. Panama's close to an hour ahead!"
"And we've only got thirty-five minutes in which to land!" said Tom. "Huckleberry pie! Boneheads we are! Boneheads, boneheads! I repeat it—boneheads, boneheads! It's all off now."
Tom actually wrung his hands in his misery, and the others felt just about as humiliated and disgusted with themselves.
"Here's where our prize goes a-flickering," groaned Paul. "We never can make Panama in thirty-five minutes!"
"I don't know about that," declared his brother grimly. "Here goes for the effort, anyhow. I'll make the Sky-Bird fly as she has never flown before!"
With that he brought the throttle wide open, and two minutes later threw the second engine into commission.