“The Irish Sea,” replied Ned shortly.
“Where we going to land?” asked Bob, a bit anxiously.
“It’s not safe here. I had thought of crossing to the coast of Ireland and following along as far as our gas holds out—supply’s running mighty low—in the hopes of getting as close to Queenstown as we dare. Then we’ll drop in some deserted spot and arrange to ship the Flyer back, while we get passage out of Queenstown for good old New York.”
“But we haven’t the slightest idea where we are,” objected Alan.
“We’ll know after we hit land again; we’ll light long enough to get our bearings. Somebody go down below and relieve Buck. He must be about worn out.”
But Buck refused to leave the wrecked engine room, where, stripped to the waist and grease from head to foot, he still tinkered with the faulty-acting machinery. In spite of his efforts the speed gauge needle steadily shifted back. A bare twenty miles an hour was all it showed.
Sunset flamed across the sky. Then gloaming came, and by and by the stars appeared one by one.
Towards midnight there was a perceptible lessening of the airship’s momentum which no mechanical efforts of Alan in the pilot room could counteract. When the velocity had decreased to ten miles per hour, he grew so alarmed that he was tempted to call Ned and Bob.
“But no!” said he. “They are worn out, poor fellows. As long as there’s no land in sight I’ll let them sleep as long as I dare.”
It was about five in the morning when Buck’s voice coming up through the speaking-tube startled Alan out of the doze into which he had fallen as he sat there at the wheel.