Alan looked at him with eyes popping.
“It’s one hundred and sixty-eight miles farther than was figured. We can’t get to Fogo till nine o’clock as I figure it.”
“How much later is that?” asked Alan finally—his lips set.
“One hour and twenty-eight minutes.”
A long whistle escaped the pilot’s lips. He tried to keep his composure by forcing a smile but it was a failure.
“Do you suppose there can be a mistake in our ocean chart?” he continued at last.
“Probably not. Your man wouldn’t likely make two errors.”
“When’ll that bring us to London—an hour and twenty-eight minutes late?”
“Thirty-eight minutes after one o’clock to-morrow afternoon, allowin’ for the difference in time,” replied Roy promptly.
“Then we’ll never come back in twelve hours,” announced Alan decisively. “Unless—” and he paused.