As they hung on for dear life, Malvoise, his face gleaming white in the glare cast from one of the cabin ports, came up to them.
"Do you think you can take the wheel for a while?" he asked Frank. "What with fear and exhaustion Constantio is almost unable to stand up."
Frank agreed, and, followed by the others he entered the pilot-house. With the exception of the binnacle light above the compass and a small shaded incandescent that shed a glow on the height indicator, the place was as black as a well.
"How is she doing now?" the boys heard Malvoise ask the inventor.
"Ah, senor, poor thing, she is torn and strained in every direction.
My heart bleeds for her!" exclaimed the Spaniard.
"Yes—yes," broke in Malvoise impatiently; "but can she last out?"
"I do not know," came the reply of the other. "It is much to ask of any dirigible to last out such a storm. See," he turned the light on to the wind-gauge—it showed a pressure of sixty miles an hour, "it is a wonder to me she has not been torn apart," he declared.
"Well, you'd better go and get some sleep now," said Malvoise abruptly, "one of these boys here will take care of the ship while you nap."
"Very well," said the Spaniard, "do not drive her too hard against the wind, senor, but rather let the wind drive her. Good-night."
He staggered out on to the swaying, plunging deck and vanished. Frank had taken the wheel as the Spaniard relinquished it and he was astonished to find how, in spite of its gears, the wind-stressed rudder tore and tugged at the spokes.