“Faith, it’s a week now since ther gang escaped us on that ship,” he muttered, “an’ we’ve hunted the say an’ coasht well for thim, but there’s no findin’ thim at all, at all, since ther fog shwallied ’em that day!”
“Gwine down to de sea, Marse Frank?” asked Pomp, who held the steering wheel.
“Skim over the sea along the coast,” advised the inventor, “and we may meet the Golden Lion and save little Leon yet.”
It seemed to be a forlorn hope.
Pomp brought the flying machine to within a few hundred feet of the waves.
He then resigned his place to Barney.
“I’se gwine fo’ to cook suppah,” said he.
“Lay ther coorse,” said the Irishman to Frank.
“Go to the eastward.”
“Aist it bes,” assented Barney, revolving the wheel.