[CHAPTER EIGHT]
Blazing Sands
"Well, I've had my fill!" Freddy gasped. "I can jolly well tell you, I've had my fill."
The two pilots had been tramping across the sand for a little over two hours, and Freddy Farmer had suddenly come to a halt and wiped a bucketful of sand-washed sweat from his face. Dave stopped and looked at him questioningly.
"Fill of what?" he asked. "What do you mean, or is the sun getting you?"
"I said I'd always wanted to see what it was like in the middle of the desert," the English youth replied with a grimace. "Well, I've had a look, and I can tell you I'm fed up with it, no end. How far do you think we'll have to go with this sand walking business, anyway?"
"Oh, not so far!" Dave said in a cheery voice. "Eight or nine hundred miles, I guess. Maybe an even thousand."
Freddy shot him a look of withering scorn.
"Only that far?" he snapped. "I thought it would be at least a couple of thousand miles. If what you say is true, we should be there by sundown, easy. But, no fooling, Dave, I'm done in something awful. I could sit down and rest for a week."
"Me, too, Freddy," Dave agreed. "But if we sit down here on the sand under this sun, we'll be fried to a crisp. Come on, fellow, up and at 'em, huh?"
"Who said anything about sitting down here?" Freddy said indignantly, and pointed. "Look over there. Lots of desert bush, and plenty of shade for both of us. What do you say?"