“Mebbe a hundred miles, and perhaps more, sor.”
“Impossible!” cried Harding, in dismay. “You don’t mean that.”
“It is near roight, sor!” declared Barney. “We were traveling moighty fast.”
“You are right there. Well, we have no time to lose, then, in returning to Frank Reade, Jr. But let us first find out where we are.”
“That’s right, sor!”
But Barney glanced over the rail and gave a cry of surprise. Then he glanced up at the rotascopes.
“Phwy, that’s queer!” he muttered. “Shure, we’re falling to the earth now!”
He rushed into the engine-room and at a glance saw the truth. The storm had disarranged a part of the electrical machinery and the Kite was falling with frightful rapidity.
Barney saw that the break was beyond quick repair, and cried:
“Och, hone, it’s kilt we’ll all be. Shure, the air-ship is fallin’ as fast as iver it can!”