Pant and Johnny looked at one another. Pant read Johnny’s answer in his eyes.
“Fair enough.” He sprang to his feet. “We go.”
A half-hour’s time was consumed in grinding a quantity of the rice, then they were away. The remaining rice might be ground and fed to the engines as they traveled.
Pant was again at the wheel. On his face there was the strained look of one who constantly listens for some dread sound. They were flying low. Now and again his gaze swept the sea. Twice he dropped to an even lower level, as he fancied he caught the rush of waters upon an unseen shore. Each time he climbed back to their old level and they sped steadily onward.
Fifty miles were recorded, then seventy-five. A hundred stretched to a hundred and twenty-five.
Suddenly Pant’s brow cleared. He climbed to a higher level. The engines stopped all at once. But this was because he had thrown back the lever. As they glided silently down, there came to them the old welcome sound of breakers. Johnny Thompson, leaning far out of the cabin, swept the sea with a pair of binoculars.
“Over to the right,” he exclaimed.
“Land?” asked the Professor.
“An island; ours, I think. A rocky promontory to the south, flat to the north, just as the sailors described it.”
“Thank God! We have made it!” The Professor brushed cold perspiration from his brow. “I was afraid—afraid of many things.”