The Last Word ran along well, and they were beginning to think of looking for a good location to spend the night, since it was evident that they would need another day to cross the desert.
Suddenly Dick, who had been looking ahead, uttered an exclamation, and made a grab for the gasoline lever.
"Stop her!" he cried to Innis. But it was too late. The car sank down several inches into a particularly soft and yielding stretch of sand.
"Wow!" cried Innis, as he saw into what he had steered.
"Never mind," consoled Dick. "It couldn't be helped. I didn't see it in time. I guess we'll have to use the canvas strips to cross this stretch. It's as wide as all get-out, and we might get into something worse if we tried to go around it. Come on, fellows; get busy!"
They leaped out, taking light wooden shovels from the back of the auto, where they had been fastened on purpose to be used on the desert sand. Then the canvas strips were brought into use, Paul and Innis stretching them in front of the wheels, while Dick drove the car over them.
The broad surface of the sail cloth, coupled with the wide tires, served to keep the machine from settling much, but their progress was slow, and after an hour or so of it Dick announced:
"Let's give up until morning. I'm dead tired, and it's too hot to work any more. We'll just camp here, have grub, and go to sleep. There's going to be a moon, and when it comes up we can work in the cool of the night."
"That's the ticket!" exclaimed Innis. "Though don't stop on my account," he urged. "I got you into this hole, and I'll help to get you out."