And so, while the Motor Rangers were gleefully heading for the land of the lost city, their two malignant foes were likewise speeding toward South America on a fast, well-equipped vessel.
CHAPTER XII.
“GOOD WORK, MANUELLO!”
“Any sign of land yet, Nat?”
The professor put the question, as he stood beside the young leader of the Motor Rangers on the bridge of the Nomad.
“I’ve noticed a sort of purplish mass, like a low-lying reach of clouds, in the distance for some time,” was the rejoinder. “Do you think that it can be the coast of Chile?”
“I think it is highly probable; we should be picking up the land by this time. I think—heaven bless us!”
The professor clutched wildly at his head. But he was too late. His latest “top-piece,” a cap that had belonged to Ding-dong Bell, was whirled from his head into the sea.
“It’s an extraordinary thing,” he said with a kind of patient resignation. “But I don’t seem able to keep a hat on my head at all.”
“So I’ve noticed,” rejoined Nat, with a sort of dry humor, “and that’s the last spare one on board. You’ve had six since we left the volcanic islands, and there are no others left.”