Soon after this, a start was made, and the aeroplane and the auto made good time across the blazing hot plain. All the afternoon they traveled until Billy Barnes fairly cried out for a stop.
“I’m so thirsty I could die,” he declared.
“Then get a drink,” recommended Bart Witherbee, indicating the zinc water tank under the tonneau seat.
“It’s empty,” said Lathrop. “I tried it a little while ago.”
“Empty,” echoed Witherbee, his face growing grave. “Here, let’s have a look at that map, youngster, and see where’s our next watering place.”
Billy Barnes, with a look of comical despair, handed it over. “I’ll have to wait for a drink of water till we get to a town, I suppose. What do you want the map for, Bart?”
“Fer that very reason—ter see how soon we do get to a town. I’d like a drink myself just about now.”
He perused the map for a minute in silence. Then he looked up, his face graver even than before.
“Well, she can go sixty miles or better, but I’m afraid of heating the engine too much if we travel at that pace,” responded Billy, who was at the steering wheel.
“Well, we’ve got to hustle; it’s most a hundred miles to Gitalong, and that’s the nearest town to us.”