“I’m sick of all this treachery, thunder of cannon, wails from the wretched common people and indiscriminate bloodshed. The United States is good enough for yours truly, and I wish that I was there right now.”
So it was decided that the Ocean Flyer be headed homeward without further delay and, after bidding good-bye to the genial von Schleinitz and Racoszky and his courageous little wife, the boys early one morning started their engines and let the hectic life of Vienna sink into a miniature panorama far beneath them.
The course was set northwesterly and a spanking breeze in a murky sky accelerated their speed.
“Off for America again at last!” shouted Bob jubilantly, and the other boys echoed him in three rousing cheers.
By ten o’clock, however, there was a marked change in the atmosphere. The barometer fell low in the glass, and every delicate instrument in the pilot room gave ominous indications of nasty weather.
Ned’s face showed his worry, but he forced a cheerful smile before his chums.
“It will blow over, I am sure,” he said.
The Flyer was being held to an elevation of perhaps 2,500 feet. The lower cloud banks cut off all view of the world beneath, and Alan suggested that they descend to a lower level where, although they might feel the effects of the rainstorm from the clouds, the rapidly increasing velocity of the wind would not hold them so surely in its grip.
Ned listened to the demoniacal shrieks of the wind as the Flyer scudded along, and was not slow to acknowledge the common sense of Alan’s advice. So the airship was dropped down to a considerably lower level below the clouds.
In that region a terrible storm was raging. The thunder burst in crashes that seemed louder than ten thousand cannon. The air vibrated with the shocks. Appalling zigzags of lightning shot yellow across the sky. The rain fell in torrents from an inky sky and dashed dismally against the metal sides of the speeding airship.