“They have a worse thing than that,” said Frank apprehensively, “a sand storm, and that’s what may be coming.”
“McArthur doesn’t seem to be worrying,” remarked Harry, glancing up at the dirigible, which was sailing slightly above them.
“No,” said Frank, “that’s a fact. Maybe I am mistaken, after all. Anyhow, we’ll keep on as long as he does.”
But half an hour later the boys wished they had alighted. The wind came in sharp, hot puffs from the north, and had it not been for the Joyce gyroscopic balancer they carried, the ship would have been in hard straits. As it was, when Frank wished to make a landing he dared not risk it. The air, too, grew so thick that he could not see the earth beneath them.
Stinging particles of sand drove into their eyes, blinding them and gritting between their teeth. The wind grew stronger, and as it did so the air grew black as night with the sand with which it was impregnated.
So dark was it, in fact, that when night came and found them still in the air, unable to make a landing, there did not seem to be any perceptible difference.
The aeroplane drove rigidly before the howling wind. Her speed was terrific. Neither boy spoke after their first expressions of alarm, but devoted their entire attentions to keeping the aeroplane from capsizing.
“Keep cool, Harry,” said Frank at length. “We may come out of it all right.”
“Where are we being driven?” asked the other lad.
“To the south at a terrific pace, too. If the gasolene holds out we may manage to live out the storm, but I don’t know where we will be driven to.”