“Well, we have a roving commission now.”
Strogoff had his field glasses glued to his eyes, and taking in the range of open country. The powerful binnacle, however, showed him nothing of interest. It was a dreary outlook at best.
“Fly east, fly west, fly south,” he repeated—“a choice broad enough for an empire maker. It is well that we know what is behind us. Are we prepared for a longer journey, my pilot?”
“We can easily do three hundred miles with our petrol supply,” assured Billy, who had just completed inspection of the tanks in both machines.
“There are two days’ rations in the lockers,” volunteered Henri.
“So far, so good,” commented Strogoff; “there is no use standing here cooling our heels. Let’s be off!”
For three hours the aviation party was continuously on the wing, traveling a southwesterly course, a trying experience owing to the frigid atmosphere and the cramped position maintained.
Toward evening another stop was in order. A bivouac must be established for the night. The aviators had been hoping against hope that a settlement would be reached, where, at least, the privilege of a shakedown before a peat fire would be accorded.
It was a bitter disappointment to Strogoff that fortune had not favored him in these long hours of vigilant outlook with a sight or sign of the horsemen he was pursuing. Almost a monomania with him was that one overwhelming desire to lay his hands upon the arch-plotter Ricker.
The truth was, he had no fixed idea when to quit, and now was so far beyond his reckoning that he did not know how to back out.