“In a sort of well amidships was stored the aero-auto with which you had been experimenting before he left High Towers.” Jack nodded. He knew the wonderful craft had been placed aboard, but had understood it had been taken along for private demonstration purposes. “You mean the air and land craft driven by the gas generated from radolite crystals?” he asked. “The Flying Road Racer, as we called it.” “Yes,” rejoined Ned, “I guess that’s it. But I reckon you know more about that than I do since you invented it. Anyhow, the aero-auto, as Professor Chadwick called it, was installed in this well, or pit, amidships, which had evidently been prepared for its reception in advance.” “And it’s still there?” inquired Tom sharply. “Still there. Whatever Professor Chadwick intended to use it for, he had no opportunity to try it out before—before what I’m going to tell you occurred. Then, too, I noticed that several chests containing articles whose nature was a mystery to me were stored in a sort of lazaretto under the cabin floor. Whatever their contents, they were evidently too precious for Professor Chadwick to let them out of his sight.” “Wait a second,” interrupted Tom, “I want to take a look outside.” In a moment he was back, anti dropped into his place with an “All’s well!” “Never mind details now. Get ahead to Yucatan,” exclaimed Jack impatiently. “I’m getting there,” protested Ned, a look of what was almost horror passing over his face at the mere mention of the name. “The storm I referred to before, struck us when we were off the southernmost point of Florida. It was a terror of a rip-roaring hurricane. All we could do was to head up into the mountainous seas and run the engines at a quarter speed. We battled with the hurricane thus for four days, and then MacDuffy, the engineer, came on deck one morning with a white face and the news that the main shaft was cracked. It had been unable to withstand the pressure of the racing propeller every time the _Sea King’s_ stern lifted out of the seas. “Luckily, the wind had moderated a bit by that time, and we set the try sails. Under these we staggered along at a four-knot gait for what seemed an eternity of time. In reality it was about five days. One morning, when the storm had about blown itself out, the lookout shouted that land lay ahead. Sure enough it did. A strip of gray on the horizon; and I can tell you it was a mighty welcome sight. “Captain Andrews, our sailing master, announced that the coast was, in all probability, that of Yucatan, and from what he told us of it we could not well have struck a more useless stretch of country to us, situated as we were. But it’s ‘any port in a storm’ said the skipper, and we made for the land, staggering along under our clumsy rig.