The Comet was still hovering over the spot where the submarine had disappeared. The motorship was moving slowly, her propellers barely revolving enough to give her steerage-way.
Jerry, with one last look at the surface of the sea, to discern, if possible, whether the strange boat had come to the top again, set about making all snug in preparation for the battle with the elements.
This was soon done, and while Bob was busy in the small galley, getting ready a meal, Ned and Jerry started the boat. The big propellers beat the air fiercely, and, as a dirigible balloon, the Comet darted high above the restless sea, and toward the shores of Boston Harbor, now many miles from sight.
But the craft was not to reach a safe haven without a fight. Scarce two miles had been covered before the storm broke, its fury increasing every minute.
The Comet heeled over until, had she been a water ship, she would have been on her beam ends. Jerry and his chums had to grasp supports to avoid falling.
“Throw in the automatic gyroscope balancer!” yelled the tall lad to Ned. “We’ll turn turtle in a minute if you don’t!”
“In she goes!” cried Ned, springing for the motor room.
The gale howled about them. Below the waves were whipped into sudden foam, and they tossed themselves on high as though reaching for the Comet, which rushed on through the storm like a frightened bird.
“Some blow!” panted Bob, as he jumped aside in time to avoid the contents of the scalding hot coffee pot on the galley stove. “Some blow!”
“Yes, and it’s getting worse every minute!” Jerry cried.