"We are," agreed Fosterdyke gravely. "Well to the west'ard. We ought to be within sight of the Seychelles."
"Any chance of getting petrol there, I wonder?" asked Bramsdean. "Judging by the name it seems a likely place to get 'Shell brand.'"
"Don't prattle, Peter," exclaimed Kenneth, facetiously.
Fosterdyke laughed at the joke.
"Rotten puns, both of them," he said. "All the same I wish we had another two hundred gallons of 'Pratt's' or 'Shell' or any other old brand of petrol. But it's no use going still farther out of our course on the off-chance of getting juice, so we'll just carry on."
With the passing of the cyclone the wind fell light. What little there was was dead aft. The sea, viewed from an altitude of three thousand feet, appeared as smooth as glass, although in reality there was a long rolling ground swell.
In order to economise the petrol consumption the speed of the "Golden Hind" was reduced to ninety miles an hour. Should the favouring wind hold, the airship stood a good chance of making the Australian coast. If it changed and blew from the south-east, then Fosterdyke's chances of winning the race would be off.
Just before eleven o'clock in the morning of the day following the storm, Frampton, one of the crew on duty in the navigation-room, reported a boat about three miles away on the port bow.
By the aid of glasses it was seen that the boat was a ship's cutter moving slowly under sail in an easterly direction. Her crew were hidden from view by a spare sail rigged as an awning over the stern sheets.
"Something wrong there," remarked Bramsdean. "A small boat hundreds of miles from the nearest land requires some explanation. Inform Sir Reginald, Frampton; tell him I propose coming down within hailing distance."