"It's not a ship, Carl," said Dick.
"Ach, du lieber," wailed Carl, "don'd tell me dot!"
"But it's something just as good, and perhaps better. It's an island."
"Turtle Key!" jubilated Carl, shortsighted as usual and glad only that they were perhaps coming closer to the iron chest. "Hoop-a-la!"
"No," went on Dick, "not Turtle Key. It's another island."
"How you know dot?"
"I can see some palm trees. Townsend told us that Turtle Key has no trees."
"A good thing for us that it isn't Turtle Key!" declared Matt, plucking up hope. "If we're to be wrecked, the more comfortable the place we're wrecked in, the better. What could we possibly do on a sand hill in the middle of the ocean? If there are trees on that island it may be inhabited. How far away is it, Dick?"
"A mile or more, matey, but just how far it's hard to tell. Bear off a point to starboard—that'll lay us in a direct line with the land."
Matt's anxious eyes were on the gas bag. He watched its diminishing bulk and tried to figure on how long it would keep them out of the water. The tendency of the air ship to settle was now most pronounced. Matt could only fight it by tilting the rudder upward and driving the motor to its full limit. This, of course, diminished somewhat the forward motion; but the breeze, fortunately, was freshening, and the speed lost in keeping the bag in the air was more than compensated by the increased force of the wind.