“Shure that was a dhirty thrick. Niver mind, yez may yit git squar wid the omadhoun!”
“I will,” replied Harding, resolutely.
The darky, Pomp, throw a rope over the rail.
“Golly, sah!” he cried, with a comical grin. “Jes’ yo’ cach hol’ ob dat an’ dis chile brung yo’ abo’d pooty quick!”
“Easy, Pomp,” said a rich, melodious voice. “It is not quite time yet.”
The speaker was Frank Reade, Jr., himself. He stood upon the deck with one hand upon the rail and an eye upon the revolving rotascopes which served to hold the ship suspended in the air.
He was a fine, handsome specimen of youth, with clear-cut features, a steady eye and an air of one born to command.
The Kite was settling down slowly into the defile.
Pomp now rushed to the pilot-house near and pressed one of the electric keys.
This so regulated the speed of the rotascopes that the air-ship was held immovable at its present attitude.