The Captain of the "Meteor" laughed at their careful precautions.
"It's a strange thing," he remarked, "how seriously we, who are used to altitudes running into thousands of feet, regard a possible fall of twenty or thirty."
"Yet there is a good reason," added his companion. "Were we to fall out of the 'Meteor' and drop a few thousand feet through space the consequences would be a matter of complete indifference to us. On the other hand, we might slip off this girder on to the ground and live for years afterward, no doubt, crippled for life. I've known a blue jacket go aloft in a strong wind to clear the pennant—a man's life at stake for the sake of a few yards of bunting—and to do it without turning a hair. Ashore that same man would think twice before alighting on a greasy road from a tramcar in motion."
Beyond a state of disorder caused by movable articles being thrown out of place by the concussion the cabins were practically intact. Rapidly Whittinghame made his way from one to the other until he reached one that had the appearance of belonging to the "Libertad's" Captain.
In one corner was a pedestal desk, its top "stove-in" by coming into contact with the bulkhead. Charts, maps, and documents littered the floor, in company with a clock, barometer, articles of clothing and books. From a peg hung a light coat, its pocket bulging considerably.
"We'll put etiquette on one side," said Whittinghame, "and see what is in this gentleman's pockets."
There was a revolver with about fifty loose cartridges in one pocket. Jerking open the weapon Whittinghame broke it across his knee and threw the pieces into the tree-tops. In the corresponding pocket was a leather case stuffed with papers. Amongst them was the counterfoil of a steamship ticket from Southampton to Pernambuco, a Brazilian railway time-table and almost a dozen envelopes bearing the stamps of four different European countries besides those of Valderia.
Without examining their contents Whittinghame thrust the envelopes into his pocket and resumed his search. In the breast-pocket of the coat were two South American newspapers dated the day previous and, what was especially useful, a large scale plan of the city of Naocuanha.
"This is Durango's cabin," he observed.
"Without a doubt," assented Dacres; "but we've had no luck with the plans."