"The boat that flies, señor?" he repeated. "Madre! of course I have seen her. Did not all of us say so?"
"But we could not understand: you were all shouting together. Now, where did you see that flying-boat?"
"Señor, she came down just outside the town not an hour ago. There were three men in her. Two were Valderians. Their master was not. He bought petrol: four cans of it. He poured the petrol into a metal flask in the boat and went on his way, over yonder," and the Peruvian pointed due north.
With the utmost celerity the fellow was lowered to his native soil, and again the "Meteor" darted ahead. Every man was now keenly on the alert. All depended upon Durango's craft being sighted before the sun dipped behind the waters of the Pacific. Only forty minutes' of daylight remained.
"Land right ahead, sir," reported one of the crew.
"That's St. Helena Point, then," declared Captain Whittinghame. "We've done a hundred miles in an hour and ten minutes. Nothing much wrong with the motors as far as we are concerned."
The next instant he devoutedly wished he hadn't spoken in this strain, for with a terrific crash one of the blades of the foremost port propeller became detached from the boss. Sheering through the aluminium cylinder protecting the double propellers, it ripped the metal to such an extent that a long strip of wreckage caught the remaining blade, snapping it off close to the base. The motor raced furiously until Parsons, knowing that something was amiss, promptly cut off the detonator.
"That's done it!" ejaculated Vaughan Whittinghame disgustedly. "That is the result of boasting."
"Repairable?" asked Dr. Hambrough.
"Yes, but not now. We can't afford to bring up for repairs. How's the steering, quartermaster?"