“We hold our own so far,” muttered the doctor.
“Golly, dis am wuss dan a lightnin’ express train,” said Pomp.
“It’s lucky we’ve got a clear field of ice ahead,” Frank remarked, as he clutched the railing. “If we hadn’t, that monster would soon reach us and hurl the Ranger up in the air.”
They had to watch the sails closely.
The canvas was bulging as if it would burst from the bolt ropes, and the wheel motors inside were fairly howling as the armatures flew around at the top of the speed imparted by the battery.
Along they shot, the terrific pace undiminished, the runner’s bumping over the lumpy spots, crashing across the cracks, and plowing up the snow they encountered.
Mile after mile was covered.
The exciting race was kept up for the northeast, for the cyclone followed the trend of the land.
Suddenly the strain on one of the square sails became so great that it burst in two with a report like a gun-shot.
In a moment the tattered canvas was wildly flying ahead from the yard, and as considerable power was lost, the speed of the Ranger was slightly diminished.