Hundreds of the head-hunters were now paddling to the attack. But when they were within range they were met with a sharp fire from the rifles and machine guns. At the same time the Air Monarch began moving, and before the attackers could get close enough to interpose their canoes in her path, the machine had risen and was soon high over their heads and out of danger.
“Whew!” whistled Ned as they sailed on. “If we don’t get the prize for the international race, Tom, we ought to get one for an international globe-circling fight. We’ve had a lot of it since we started.”
“Yes, we have,” Tom admitted, wincing a bit as he moved his wounded leg. “And we may have more. We still have Kilborn to reckon with.”
“I wonder where he is,” mused Ned as the machine straightened out on her course.
“Hard to say,” was the answer. “But we aren’t making as good time as I’d like to make. He may pull in ahead of us.”
At the thought of this the speed of the craft was increased and as night came she was winging her way over the vast expanse of the Pacific Ocean toward the shores of the United States.
It was just at dawn the next morning when Ned, who had got up early to make Tom a cup of coffee, looked down toward the sea. What he saw caused him to cry out.
“What is it?” asked his chum.
“There’s a raft just below us.”
“A raft?”