“Gar—yah!” said Doctor Sims, cryptically.
Doctor Trigg looked at him over his glasses.
“I should know almost everything, my dear,” he agreed. “You see, I have been closely associated with Doctor Sims here for forty years, and having a retentive memory, I have been able to collect and assimilate a vast amount of information.”
“Chops,” said Doctor Sims to the waiter.
The wind was lessening, and the Moonbeam was steadily picking up speed. At seven o’clock that evening they passed within thirty miles of Yakutsk, lying toward the southwest. The evening went gaily. Dulcie brought out her mandolin, and the youngest reporter confessed to a guitar. There was singing, too, and Doctor Trigg surprised everyone with a knowledge of the words of about every college song ever written. He sang them, too, in a lusty, wabbly old voice, happily oblivious of Doctor Sims’ “Ha’s,” “Humphs” and “Gr-r-r-r-rs.”
At two the next morning, Thursday, they reached the Port of Ayan, on the Sea of Okhotsk. They had safely gained the eastern coast of Asia. At breakfast that morning, Mr. Hammond was elated.
“We have made up all the time we lost in the storm over the Atlantic, in spite of the winds over the Urals,” he exclaimed. “We will surely make a lot crossing the Pacific—eight hours, at least, if we have good weather, and another two crossing the United States will put us in Lakehurst eight hours ahead of the flying time of the Graf Zeppelin.”
David shook his head.
“I hate to have the chief set his heart on such a record,” he said to Red, as they later went forward to the control room. “You know we won’t have that much luck.”
“If we do, it sure will be luck,” said Red, skeptically.