The goblin hurried to the selector, and gradually turned the thumb-screw until the machine was wide open—the current was all on.
The balloon instantly responded, and began to fly through the air at a speed little short of miraculous; its two occupants had to throw themselves prostrate and cling to the locker for safety. The still summer air appeared to be blowing a hurricane; the placid, heaving ocean appeared to be racing toward the west, a foaming, tossing torrent. One by one, a few each minute, the feathers escaped through the rent in the striped bag; and foot by foot, very slowly and very surely, the aërial vehicle yielded to the overmastering power of gravitation.
On, on and on they sped, reeling off miles as a watch ticks off seconds. Neither the boy nor the goblin found anything to say. Both fully realized that they were running a race with death, and the knowledge awed them to silence.
The noon hour came, and still they were flying like mad, due east.
Fitz cautiously lifted his head, put the binocular to his eyes, and looked away toward the south.
“There’s the Azores,” he said, shouting in order to make himself heard, his tone expressing relief and satisfaction.
“The Azores?” Bob bellowed in reply.
“Yes—the islands.”
“Oh!”
“Yes; we’re making good time.”