The island could now be plainly seen by the naked eye. It was low and sandy and only two or three palm trees could be seen. The size of the island dashed Matt's hope of finding it inhabited.
"Keep her moving, mate!" shouted Ferral. "We're coming closer! A quarter of a mile farther and we'll alight on solid ground."
Matt was fighting a fierce battle with the diminishing gas. Every move he could think of was brought into play. From a five hundred-foot elevation the Hawk descended to four hundred feet, to three and then to two.
The craft was tilted sharply upward, the racing propeller trying vainly to drive her back to the heights she was surely and steadily losing.
Matt called Dick and Carl back toward the stern in order to free the forward part of the car of their weight and make it easier to keep the Hawk's nose in the air. This maneuver met with some success, although the air ship continued to settle by the stern, coming nearer and nearer the tumbling waves.
The island was so close now that those aboard could see a little cove in its shore line. The tilted air ship, like some stricken monster, was being carried toward this cove by the wind.
"That bit of a bay is a good place for us to come down, matey," said Dick.
"Almost any place will be good enough," answered Matt, grimly, "just so it's close enough to the shore."
"Der pag," cried Carl, "ain'd more dan haluf so pig as id vas."
"Throw over some of that plunder!" ordered Matt. "Not the water cask or the provisions, but anything else you can lay hands on."