“Just fifteen minutes after one,” he announced.
“Then we have been fourteen hours on the spin,” calculated Bob. “I don’t believe any of the others have beat that.”
“We don’t know that, of course.”
“It’s surely nine hundred miles,” continued Bob, “maybe twelve hundred. It seemed to me we just spun along these last four hours.”
“We have done finely,” declared Ben, “and we should feel pretty glad to land with no mishaps.”
While his companion was seeking for the food sack in the body of the machine, Ben was unshipping some of the planes and wiring the wheels to near tree stumps, so the flying machine could not be budged if a sudden wind came up.
“I wonder where we are, Ben?” inquired Bob, appearing with the canvas bag that held some tools and a bulky package of food.
“No telling. I couldn’t keep track of direction after it got dark.”
“We’re probably out of the range of running fuel anyway,” surmised Bob.
“Yes, I think that is right.”