“Plenty of gas?”
“A reservoir full and more gas-making stuff in the reserve chamber.”
“Very well, then. I’m ready when you are.”
And without any more words Mr. Chadwick climbed into the machine, using in his ascent a small ladder set against the gleaming metallic sides. The boys exchanged glances. But they didn’t make any comment. It was not a time for words. While they waited even, events might be transpiring aboard the strange yacht of an unknown, possibly tragic, nature.
“Open the doors, Tom,” ordered Jack, in a voice that sounded like anybody else’s rather than his own.
Tom hastened to obey. The big panels in front of the shed rolled back. The opening thus revealed framed a wild sea-scape of rising waves, overcast sky and, in the center, the yacht, her reversed ensign making a bright splotch of color against the leaden background. But as yet the wind was merely puffy, and not blowing with dangerous strength.
Having opened the doors, Tom hastened back. He climbed in by Jack’s side.
“Are we all ready?” he asked, with a gulp. In his excitement his heart was bounding with sufficient velocity to be uncomfortably evident. But he managed, by an effort, to keep calm, or rather to appear so.
“As ready as we’ll ever be, I guess. Be ready to lower those hydroplanes when I give the word.”
Tom nodded. The hydroplanes worked on toggle-joints and could be lowered and locked when required. This was a part of his duty that the boys had already rehearsed. Jack’s hand sought a lever. A hissing sound followed. The gas was beginning to rush into the big gas-bag. Its folds began to puff out and writhe as if some living thing was within it.