The next morning Karl got out a map of South America and spread it out on the tail of the machine.
“Here we are about twenty miles inland,” he said. “The nearest town appears to be about fifteen miles from here. Luckily it’s south, and we won’t have to go much off our course.”
“Think we can get gasoline there?” queried Joe.
“Probably not,” Karl answered. “But if we have to we can take a train to Cartagena—that’s a city not far from here on the coast. Of course they have gas there.”
They climbed into the monoplane, which, with a roar, rolled over the high grass and headed south. Karl kept the machine going at as slow a speed as possible, for he desired to use every ounce of fuel to advantage. But even then they made the short trip to the little town in but a few minutes.
“Here we are, right near the town.” Karl climbed out of the cockpit after having made a perfect landing.
Scarcely had the explorers stepped to the ground when they caught sight of a score or more natives running toward them. It was a motley crowd that surrounded the Americans a few seconds later.
Surprise, bewilderment, amazement were displayed on the faces of the Colombians. The monoplane they viewed with a certain awe that was almost childish in its sincerity.
As soon as the jabbering had abated somewhat, Mr. Holton addressed them in Spanish, asking if it might be possible to procure gasoline for the airplane.