"I wonder when we'll strike Siberia?" mused Tom one afternoon, as they
sat on the outer deck, enjoying the air.
"At this rate of progress, very soon," answered the exile, after
glancing at the map. "We should be at the foot of the Ural mountains in
a few hours, and across them in the night. Then we will be in Siberia."
And he was right, for just as supper was being served, Ned, who had been
making observations with a telescope, exclaimed:
"These must be the Urals!"
Mr. Petrofsky seized the glass.
"They are," he announced. "We will cross between Orsk and Iroitsk. A
safe place. In the morning we will be in Siberia--the land of the
exiles."
And they were, morning seeing them flying over a most desolate stretch
of landscape. Onward they flew, covering verst after verst of
loneliness.
"I'm going to put on a little more speed," announced Tom, after a visit
to the storeroom, where were kept the reserve tanks of gasolene. "I've
got more fluid than I thought I had, and as we're on the ground now I
want to hurry things. I'm going to make better time," and he yanked over
the lever of the accelerator, sending the Falcon ahead at a rapid rate.
All day this was kept up, and they were just making an observation to
determine their position, along toward supper time, when there came the
sound of another explosion from the motor room.
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