“Then something may happen at any minute?”
“I didn’t say so. Uncle; but, as Captain Andrews said, the wind may grow stronger.”
“It’s hard to tell what these tropical hurricanes will do, once they get started,” said the burly captain. “I’ve seen ’em blow for a week and flatten out whole groves of cocoanuts.”
It grew blacker and blacker. The Flying Road Racer was now scudding through ragged white clouds that drove as fast as she did under a panoply of inky black. The scream of the rigging as the wind rushed against the taut, straining wires, sounded almost like the cries of some live thing in pain.
Every now and again there would come a sudden burst of vicious fury, and once or twice it actually appeared as if the great air craft would be ripped in pieces. But so far every wire and brace and turnbuckle in her construction had held bravely.
Jack watched the engine anxiously, attending to the lubricating devices and adjusting the gas mixers. The machine was behaving splendidly, and Jack felt that if only the connections between the gas bag and the car would hold they might still weather the fury of the gale.
He knew that these tropical hurricanes while furious are often not of very long duration. He stuck to his post, keeping hope alive in his heart, while the others pluckily enough endured the situation without flinching.
All at once, the wind stopped as suddenly as if it had been cut off at a gigantic spigot.
The calm, after that raging, furious gale, was positively startling.
“Is the storm over?” asked Ned.