“I guess we are, Bob.”
The boy took up the binocular and looked all around.
“Why!” he exclaimed. “There’s a city ’way back yonder on the coast, an odd-looking city like the pictures in my geography; and there’s nothing out there ahead of us but sand—sand—sand, as far as I can see.”
“Huh!” snorted Fitz Mee.
Then he rolled to the floor of the car, laughing immoderately and holding his sides and kicking up his heels.
“Look here!” the boy cried angrily. “What’s the matter with you, old Convulsions? What’s so funny, I’d like to know?”
“Why—why, Bob,” Fitz said, getting upon his feet and wiping his pop eyes upon the long tails of his coat, “we’re a pair of precious ninnies. We’ve been traveling south all the time—instead of east as I thought, or west as you thought. And here we are in Africa. We’ve crossed the narrow part of the Mediterranean; and we’re now in the southern edge of Morocco—right over the Sahara desert!”