“Getting nearer the island,” he announced after some ten minutes of the agony.
A little later: “Thank Heaven! We're almost over land!”
And still later, when I had been choked and twisted almost into insensibility by the eccentric dives of the affair and the consequent tightening of the cords, he revived me with:
“By George, Griggs, we're sinking toward land!”
I managed to look downward. Hawkins had told the truth. The wind was indeed going down, and with it the remains of the Anti-Fire-Fly.
Beneath appeared a big factory, its chimney belching forth black smoke in disregard of the Sabbath, and we seemed likely to land within its precincts.
“I knew it! I knew it!” Hawkins cried joyfully. “We're safe, after all, just as I said. We'll drop just outside the fence.”
“Thank the Lord,” I murmured.
“No! No! We'll drop right on that heap of dirt!” predicted Hawkins excitedly. “Yes, sir, that's where we'll drop. D'ye see that fellow wheeling a wheelbarrow toward the pile? Hey!”
The man glanced up in amazement.