“Keep on running before the wind. It’s all we can do,” rejoined Jack.
The storm-beaten air craft, with its heavy human freight, was now being driven almost due north along the coast. Tom kept the prow pointed so as to bring the course almost parallel with the coast. All the time both he and Jack kept a keen lookout for a possible landing place.
But none appeared. The wind, instead of dying down, grew stronger as the day went on.
“What will be the end of this?” was the thought that crossed the minds of all of them in one form or another.
The sun was obscured by scudding clouds, below them rolled the dismal, desolate expanse of salt water, for by this time they had passed over the peninsula of Yucatan and were out over the open gulf. In the distance to the westward, however, lay a dim coast line, and Tom steered toward it.
Suddenly there came a loud, ripping, crashing sound.
As he heard it Jack gave a cry of dismay. It was echoed by Tom and Ned, who both instantly guessed what had occurred.
The rudder had given way under the strain.
Looking over the side of the car they could see it being swept away by the wind, while astern of the tonneau hung a mass of tangled wreckage.
“Good heavens! This is the worst yet,” groaned Captain Andrews. “Adrift in an airship without a rudder! What under the starry dome can we do now?”