heads, and get all the gold we want."

"Is there enough to give every one all he wants?" asked Tom, with a
quizzical smile. "I don't know that I ever had enough."

"Me either," added Ned Newton.

"Oh, there's lots of gold there," declared the old miner. "The thing
to do is to get it and we can sure do that now."

The remainder of the day passed uneventfully, though Tom cast
anxious looks at the weather as night set in, and Ned, noting his
chum's uneasiness, asked:

"Worrying about anything, Tom?"

"Yes, I am," was the reply. "I think we're in for a hard storm, and
I don't know just how the airship will behave up in these northern
regions. It's getting much colder, and the gas in the bag is
condensing more than I thought it would. I will have to increase our
speed to keep us moving along at this elevation."

The motor was adjusted to give more power, and, having set it so
that it, as well as the rudders, would be controlled automatically,
Tom rejoined his companions in the main cabin, where, as night
settled down, they gathered to eat the evening meal.

Through the night the great airship plowed her way. At times Tom
arose to look at some of the recording instruments. It was growing
colder, and this further reduced the volume of the gas, but as the
speed of the ship was sufficient to send her along, sustained by the
planes and wings alone, if necessary, the young inventor did not
worry much.

Morning broke gray and cheerless. A few flakes of snow fell. There
was every indication of a heavy storm. They were high above a
desolate and wild country now, hovering over a sparsely settled
region where they could see great forests, stretches of snow-covered
rocks, and towering mountain crags.

The snow, which had been lazily falling, suddenly ceased. Tom looked
out in surprise. A moment later there came a sound as if some giant
fingers were beating a tattoo on the roof of the main cabin.

"What's that!" cried Ned.

"Bless my umbrella! has anything happened?" demanded Mr. Damon.

"It's a hail storm!" exclaimed Tom. "We've run into a big hail
storm. Look at those frozen stones! They're as big as hens' eggs!"

On a little platform in front of the steering-house could be seen
falling immense hailstones. They played a tattoo on the wooden
planks.

"A hail storm! Bless my overshoes!" cried Mr. Damon.

"A hail storm!" echoed Mr. Parker. "I expected we would have one.
The hailstones will become even larger than this