Chapter XXIII. The Lost Mine

For several moments it seemed as if disaster would overtake the little band of platinum-hunters. In spite of all that Tom and Ned could do, the Falcon was whipped about like a feather in the wind. Sometimes she was pointing her nose to the clouds, and again earthward. Again she would be whirling about in the grip of the hurricane, like some fantastic dancer, and again she would roll dangerously. Had she turned turtle it probably would have been the last of her and of all on board.

"Yank that deflecting lever as far down as it will go!" yelled Tom to his chum.

"I am. She won't go any farther."

"All right, hold her so. Mr. Damon, let all the gas out of the bag. I want to be as heavy as possible, and get to earth as soon as we can."

"Bless my comb and brush!" cried the odd man. "I don't know what's going to become of us."

"You will know, pretty soon, if the gas isn't let out!" retorted Tom grimly, and then Mr. Damon hastened to the generator compartment, and opened the emergency outlet.

Finally, by crowding on all the possible power, so that the propellers and deflecting rudders forced the craft down, Tom was able to get out of the grip of the hurricane, and landed just beyond the zone of it on the ground.

"Whew! That was a narrow squeak!" cried Ned, as he got out. "How'd you do it, Tom?"

"I hardly know myself. But it's evident that we're on the right spot now."

"But the wind has stopped blowing," said Mr. Damon. "It was only a gust."

"It was the worst kind of a gust I ever want to see," declared the young inventor. "My air glider ought to work to perfection in that. If you think the wind has died out, Mr. Damon, just walk in that direction," and Tom pointed off to the left.

"Bless my umbrella, I will," was the reply and the odd man started off. He had not gone far, before he was seen to put his hand to his cap. Still he kept on.

"He's getting into the blow-zone," said Tom in a low voice.

The next moment Mr. Damon was seen to stagger and fall, while his cap was whisked from his head, and sent high into the air, almost instantly disappearing from sight.

"Some wind that," murmured Ned, in rather awe-struck tones.

"That's so," agreed his chum. "But we'd better help Mr. Damon," for that gentleman was slowly crawling back, not caring to trust himself on his feet, for the wind had actually carried him down by its force.

"Bless my anemometer!" he gasped, when Tom and Ned had given him a hand up. "What happened?"

"It was the great wind," explained Tom. "It blows only in a certain zone, like a draft down a chimney. It is like a cyclone, only that goes in a