CHAPTER XII.—THROUGH THE NIGHT.
Up and out into the night winged the great sea-and-air craft, the powerful motors working without a skip, and the propellers beating the air with a noise like the drone of a mastadonic bee—or more appropriately, night beetle. Above shone the stars, steady points of brightness in the dark blue canopy of heavens; below stretched the silent, empty sea, heaving gently. The air was calm and still, and the Sea Eagle cleaved her way through it powerfully. Dr. Perkins set the course at due southeast, and kept a careful eye on the compass.
“What speed are we making?” shouted Frank presently.
The inventor glanced at the aërial speed meter, a device of his own invention.
“Close to fifty,” he shouted back, for, owing to the roar of the engines and propellers, it was necessary to raise the voice in speaking to any one at a distance.
“Then we should be in the vicinity in half an hour?”
“Yes; that is unless——”
But Dr. Perkins broke off abruptly. The Sea Eagle had now attained a height of some five hundred feet, at which altitude he intended to keep the craft till they reached the vicinity of the disabled yacht.
The cause of the sudden breaking off of his shouted remarks was this: Without the slightest warning the Sea Eagle gave a sickening dip downward, and rushed toward the sea; or rather, to those in the falling ship, it seemed as if the sea was racing up devouringly toward them.
“Gracious, what’s happened?” shouted Harry.