of beating
up against the wind, he turned the craft around, and let it fly
before the gale, the propellers aiding to get up a speed of seventy
miles an hour.

Mr. Fenwick, who had dropped the last of his messages, came from his
small private cabin, to where Mr. Damon and Tom were in a low-voiced
conversation near the engines. The owner of the WHIZZER, happened to
look down through a plate-glass window in the floor of car. What he
saw caused him to give a gasp of astonishment.

"Why--why!" he exclaimed. "We--we're over the ocean."

"Yes," answered Tom, quietly, as he gazed down on the tumbling
billows below them. They had quickly passed over Cape May, across
the sandy beach, and were now well out over the Atlantic.

"Why--why are we out here?" asked Mr. Fenwick. "Isn't it dangerous--in
an airship that hasn't been thoroughly tried yet?"

"Dangerous? Yes, somewhat," replied Tom, slowly. "But we can't help
ourselves, Mr. Fenwick. We can't turn around and go back in this
gale, and we can't descend."

"Then what's to be done?"

"Nothing, except to keep on until the gale blows itself out."

"And how long will that be?"

"I don't know--a week, maybe."

"Bless my coffee pot, I'm glad we've got plenty on board to eat!"
exclaimed Mr. Damon.

CHAPTER XI

A NIGHT OF TERROR

After the first shock of Tom's announcement, the two men, who were
traveling with him in the airship, showed no signs of fear. Yet it
was alarming to know that one was speeding over the mighty ocean,
before a terrific gale, with nothing more substantial under one that
a comparatively frail airship.

Still Mr. Damon knew Tom of old, and had confidence in his ability,
and, while Mr. Fenwick was not so well acquainted with our hero, he
had heard much about him, and put faith in his skill to carry them
out of their present difficulty.

"Are you sure you can't turn around and go back?" asked Mr. Fenwick.
His knowledge of air-currents was rather limited.

"It is out of the question," replied Tom, simply. "We would surely
rip this craft to pieces if we attempted to buffet this storm."

"Is it so bad, then?" asked Mr. Damon, forgetting to bless anything
in the tense excitement of the moment.

"It might be worse," was the reply of the young inventor. "The wind
is blowing about eighty miles an hour at times, and to try to turn
now would mean that we would tear the planes loose from the ship.
True, we could still keep up by means of the gas