“Well, I’m glad we’re out of that,” remarked Tom, with a long breath—the first, seemingly, that he had taken in some time.
“Same here!” commented Ned. They were able to converse now by means of the speaking tube which connected the forward and aft cockpits, having only to overcome the roar of the motors and not the fierce rattle of the storm.
“And I guess if we do it inside of nineteen hours we’ve accomplished a lot,” went on Tom. “The Broadway Limited thinks it’s doing wonders if it goes from New York to Chicago in eighteen, but we have them skinned by several miles.”
“You said it!” cried Ned, with justified enthusiasm. “But do you think you’ll lose all of two hours, Tom?”
“Fully that,” Tom admitted, rather ruefully. “I did hope we might make it in sixteen hours and a few minutes, as I said we could do. But that storm actually cut two hours, if not more, off our schedule. However, it can’t be helped.”
So rapidly was the Osprey making time now that it seemed as if the Golden Gate were rushing forward and opening wide to receive the wonderful craft and her occupants. It is the sun, setting in a glory of gold outside the harbor of San Francisco that gives the poetical name to the city, as much so, perhaps, as the yellow nuggets it produced in the days that never will return.
There came a signal from the car. It was Ted Dolan calling up to Tom:
“Do you want to be relieved?”
“Thank you, no,” the young inventor answered. “I’ll stick now and make the landing.”
“I thought you might want to do so,” Ted said. “But if the storm played you out, Art and I will take her for a little while and you and Mr. Newton can come up again just before making the landing.”