“Something’s wrong with the machinery,” cried Tom, as the odd sound came again.
“Can’t be. She’s working like a clock,” rejoined Jack. “Hold tight,—we’re going up.”
As Jack spoke, he applied a full stream of gas to the limp bag, and the Wondership shot upward with the swiftness of a rocket. A gust of wind struck them and sang weirdly through the rigging and supports. But the craft never wavered on her course. As she shot upward, though, from the yacht, heard above the hum and buzz of the machinery, came the sound of another gun.
“They’re wishing us luck!” cried Jack.
“We’ll need all we can get,” came a voice. “By the bounding brown buffaloes of Brunswick, this is the limit!”
“Hullo! What’s the matter with you, Tom?” cried Jack looking around in astonishment, as he manipulated the craft with a skill born of long practice.
“I didn’t speak, Jack. It was that same mysterious voice. This craft is haunted, I believe.”
“Nonsense. We must be imagining things,” declared Jack; “but I’m almost sure I heard a voice.”
“So am I. How is she working, Jack?” asked Tom, dismissing the subject. He thought that his overwrought nerves were at work.
“Finely. I’m heading straight for the yacht. I mean to circle her and then,” he paused an instant and added, “drop!”