“Don’t think of it!  You’d be instantly killed.  We’re too high for a jump, even into the ocean.”

“The ocean!  Oh, is that still below us?  Is there any chance of being saved?  What can be done?” Mr. Damon hesitated.

“We must first find out how badly we are damaged,” said Tom, quietly.  “We must keep our heads, and be calm, no matter what happens.  I need your help, Mr. Damon.”

This served to recall the rather excited man to his senses.  He came back to the centre of the cabin, which was no easy task, for the floor of it was tilted at first one angle, and then another.  He stood at Tom’s side.

“What can I do to help you?” he asked.  Mr. Fenwick was darting here and there, examining the different machines.  None of them seemed to be damaged.

“If you will look and see what has happened to our main wing planes, I will see how much gas we have left in the bag,” suggested Tom.  “Then we can decide what is best to be done.  We are still quite high, and it will take some time to complete our fall, as, even if everything is gone, the material of the bag will act as a sort of parachute.”

Mr. Damon darted to a window in the rear of the cabin, where he could obtain a glimpse of the main wing planes.  He gave a cry of terror and astonishment.

“Two of the planes are gone!” he reported.  “They are torn and are hanging loose.”

“I feared as much,” retorted Tom, quietly, “The gale was too much for them.”

“What of the lifting gas?” asked Mr. Fenwick, quickly.

“It has nearly all flowed out of the retaining bag.”

“Then we must make more at once.  I will start the generating machine.”

He darted toward it.

“It will be useless,” spoke Tom, quietly.

“Why?”

“Because there is no bag left to hold it.  The silk and rubber envelope has been torn to pieces by the gale.  The wind is even stronger than it was last night.”

“Then what’s to be done?” demanded Mr. Damon, with a return of his alarmed and nervous manner.  “Bless my fingernails!  What’s to be done?”

For an instant Tom did not answer.  It was constantly getting lighter, though there was no sun, for it was obscured by scudding clouds.  The young inventor looked critically at the various gages and indicators.

“Is—­is there any chance for us?” asked Mr. Fenwick, quietly.

“I think so,” answered Tom, with a hopeful smile.  “We have about two thousand feet to descend, for we have fallen nearly that distance since the accident.”

“Two thousand feet to fall!” gasped Mr. Damon.  “We can never do it and live!”

“I think so,” spoke Tom.

“Bless my gizzard!  How?” fairly exploded Mr. Damon.

“By vol-planing down!”

“But, even if we do, we will fall into the ocean!” cried Mr. Fenwick.  “We will be drowned!”

“No,” and Tom spoke more quietly than before.  “We are over a large island.” he went on, “and I propose to let the disabled airship vol-plane down to it.  That is our only chance.”