“I guess it must be supper-time,” remarked Bob.
“Chunky tells by his stomach, not by the clock,” commented Jerry. “All right, Bob, set out the repast, if you like.”
The lad lost no time in complying, having constituted himself cook of the motor ship, and a simple but good meal was soon prepared on the gasolene stove.
“Ned, suppose you take charge in the pilot house while I eat,” called Mr. Glassford down the little flight of stairs which led from the main cabin to the steering tower. “All you have to do is keep everything where I leave it, and maintain a course as near south as you can. We’re making to the west some, as the wind is a little too strong for us, but by changing the angle of the planes we may overcome it a bit.”
Ned, with some anxiety, went to the pilot house, but he had little to do, as most of the machinery was automatic, and he only had to watch the gages and occasionally move a lever or a wheel.
“We’re still making a little too much west,” said Mr. Glassford anxiously when he again took charge. “I think I’ll change our elevation a trifle.”
“Going up or down?” asked Ned.
“Down, I think. I don’t care to be too high up when the storm breaks, as it looks as if it would very soon now.”
Low mutterings of thunder and occasional flashings of lightning bore out this belief. There was no howling of the wind, as there is on earth in a storm, for the reason that the motor ship was being carried right along with the gale, being a part of it, so to speak, and it offered no resistance to the air current. Occasionally, when a cross current blew through the guy wires and gas bag net, there was a low moaning sound, not very cheerful to hear.
Mr. Glassford shifted the elevation rudder, and the ship at once poked her pointed nose toward the earth. It was now very dark, and nothing could be seen outside of the craft. Still, there was no fear of colliding with anything in the upper air, and the pilot might as well have closed his eyes, for all he could see ahead of him.