But the peril Jack had called attention to lay directly in front of them. Beyond the trees came a strip of white beach, and beyond that again the vast troubled expanse of the heaving ocean billows, lashed into fury by the storm. Their situation was indeed critical. “We’re going from bad to worse,” exclaimed Mr. Jesson. “Is there no way of landing?” “Not without the risk of killing or injuring most of us,” rejoined Jack soberly. “Why—why, then we’ll be compelled to fly above the ocean?” “It looks that way. I don’t see what else we can do.” “But in that case we shall be in grave danger?” “I don’t think the danger will be much greater than the one we have faced. We have plenty of gas still, and can keep in the air for a long time if need be.” “A week?” asked Captain Andrews. “These hurricanes sometimes last as long as that.” “I don’t know that we could hold out for a week,” admitted Jack; “but I do know that we cannot avoid being blown out to sea. If the storm does not abate we are likely to be compelled to spend some time above the water.” “Well, the wind is coming out of the southwest now. If we keep on this way we ought to be blown clear across the Gulf of Mexico and on to the western shore of Florida.” It was Captain Andrews who vouchsafed this last remark. “I don’t know that that would be a bad idea,” commented Professor Chadwick. “How long ought it to take us, going at this rate of speed?” inquired Abner Jennings. “Let’s see, the least distance across would be about fifteen hundred miles.” “Then, at the rate we are being driven, it would take about twenty-four hours to make the passage,” calculated Mr. Jesson. “About that time—yes,” agreed Jack. “I really think we had better try to do that.” All agreed that it appeared to be the best plan. While they had been discussing this, they had passed over the last few miles of dry land. Looking down now they saw beneath them a vast expanse of gray, tumbling billows, tossing and rolling before the wind. “If we ever took a tumble into the sea it would be all up with us,” commented Jack in a low voice to Tom. “Yes; even a ship could hardly live in such a storm, and yet—look. Jack, back yonder,—isn’t that,—yes, surely it’s a craft of some sort!” The lad indicated a point to the southward of them. Rising and falling in the great trough of the billows was a small vessel of some sort. For an instant Jack thought it was the _Tarantula_, but the next moment he made out that the vessel they were looking at had two masts and a yellow funnel amidships. But another shift of the wind gave them something else to think of right then. The blast “hauled round,” as mariners call it, and shifted to the south. The Flying Road Racer’s head was twisted around to the north and she was deflected from her course to the eastward and the hoped-for Florida coast. “What shall we do now?” cried Ned Bangs, when he observed this. “Keep on running before the wind. It’s all we can do,” rejoined Jack.