“Those—chests,” came back through the tube. “Do—you—hear—me? Those—chests—they—are—marked—with—initials—L—B—on the bottom. Do—you—hear? L—like—lake. B—like—bird. Get it?”
“Yes,” Johnny answered.
“All—right.”
Again, save for the thunder of the engines and the diminishing howl of the wind, there was silence.
“Wish I had tried harder to get the name of those things in the four chests,” Johnny mused. “I’d like mighty well to know. Didn’t sound like anything I have ever heard of. Perhaps it’s some kind of Russian fur; new name for Russian sable, maybe. Guess there’s no use asking him about it now. Too much noise; couldn’t hear.”
Then his mind turned to the steamer they had seen struggling in that raging sea. He wondered if it had escaped.
“Hope so,” he murmured, “even if they are our rivals. We’ll beat them easily if we get out of this. Looks like we would, too.”
Then, suddenly, his face went gray. He had thought of something—the dust in the fuel tank! There would have been enough to carry them to their destination, and a little to spare, had they not encountered the storm. They had battled the storm for what seemed hours. This had consumed much fuel. What awaited them once they were free from this storm?
He put his mouth to Pant’s speaking-tube, but the message remained unspoken.
“No use to cross a bridge till we come to it,” he muttered. “Not out of the storm yet.”