Slowly the airship arose, almost too slowly to suit those on board who anxiously watched the oncoming officers. The latter had drawn their short swords, and at the sight of them Mr. Damon cried out:
"Bless my football! If they jab them into the gas bag, Tom, we're done for!"
"They won't get the chance," answered the young inventor, and he spoke truly, for a moment later, as the big propellers took hold of the air, the Falcon went up with a rush, and was far beyond the reach of the men. In a rage the spy shook his fist at the fast receding craft, and one of the policemen drew his revolver.
"They're going to fire!" cried Ned.
"They can't do much damage," answered Tom coolly. "A bullet hole in the bag is easily repaired, and anywhere else it won't amount to anything."
The officer was aiming his revolver at the airship, now high above his head, but with a quick motion the spy pulled down his companion's arm, and they seemed to be disputing among themselves.
"I wonder what that means?" mused Mr. Damon.
"Probably they didn't want to risk getting into trouble," replied the Russian. "There are strict laws in France about using firearms, and as yet we are accused of no crime. We are only suspected, and I suppose the spy didn't want to get into trouble. He is on foreign ground, and there might be international complications."
"Then you really think he was a spy?" asked Tom.
"No doubt of it, and I'm afraid this is only the beginning of our trouble."
"In what way?"
"Well, of course word will be sent on ahead about us, and every where we go they'll be on the watch for us. They have our movements pretty well covered."
"We won't make a descent until we get to Siberia," said Tom, "and I guess there it will be so lonesome that we won't be troubled much."
"Perhaps," admitted the Russian, "but we will have to be on our guard. Of course keeping up in the air will be an advantage but they may—"
He stopped suddenly and shrugged his shoulders.
"What were you going to say?" inquired Ned.
"Oh, it's just something that might happen, but it's too remote a possibility to work about. We're leaving those fellows nicely behind," he added quickly, as though anxious to change the subject.
"Yes, at this rate we'll soon be out of France," observed Tom, as he speeded the ship along still more. The young inventor wondered what Mr. Petrofsky had been going to say, but soon after this, some of the repaired machinery in the motor room needed adjusting, and the young inventor was kept so busy that the matter passed from his mind.
The dynamo and magneto were doing much more efficient work since Tom had put the new platinum in, and the Falcon was making better time than ever before. They were flying at a moderate height, and could see wondering men, women and children rush out from their houses, to gaze aloft at the strange sight. Paris was now far behind, and that night they were approaching the borders of Prussia, as Mr. Petrofsky informed them, for he knew every part of Europe.
The route, as laid down by Tom and the Russian, would send the airship skirting the southern coast of the Baltic sea, then north-west, to pass to one side of St. Petersburg, and then, after getting far enough to the north, so as to avoid the big cities, they would head due east for Siberia.
"In that way I think we'll avoid any danger from the Russian police," remarked the exile.
For the next few days they flew steadily on at no remarkable speed, as the extra effort used more gasolene than Tom cared to expend in the motor. He realized that he would need all he had, and he did not want to have to buy any more until he was homeward bound, for the purchase of it would lead to questions, and might cause their detention.
Mr. Damon gave his friends good meals and they enjoyed their trip very much, though naturally there was some anxiety about whether it would have a successful conclusion.
"Well, if we don't find the platinum mine we'll rescue your brother, if there's a possible chance!" exclaimed Tom one day, as he sat in the pilot house with the exile. "Jove! it will be great to drop down, pick him up, and fly away with him before those Cossacks, or whoever has him, know what's up."
"I'm afraid we can't make such a sensational rescue as that," replied Mr. Petrofsky. "We'll have to go at it diplomatically. That's the only way to get an exile out of Siberia. We must get word to him somehow, after we locate him, that we are waiting to help him, and then we can plan for his escape. Poor Peter! I do hope we can find him, for if he is in the salt or sulphur mines it is a living death!" and he shuddered at the memory of his own exile.
"How do you expect to get definite information as to where he might be?" asked Tom.
"I think the only thing to do is to get in touch with some of the revolutionists," answered the Russian. "They have ways and means of finding out even state secrets. I think our best plan will be to land near some small town, when we get to the edge of Siberia. If we can conceal the airship, so much the better. Then I can disguise myself and go to the village."
"Will it be safe?" inquired the young inventor.
"I'll have to take that chance. It's the only way, as I am the only one in our party who can speak Russian."
"That's right," admitted Tom with a laugh. "I'm afraid I could never master that tongue. It's as hard as Chinese."
"Not quite," replied his friend, "but it is not an easy language for an American."
They talked at some length, and then Tom noticing, by one of the automatic gages on the wall of the pilot house, that some of the machinery needed attention, went to attend to it.
He was rather surprised, on emerging from the motor compartment, to see Mr. Damon standing on the open after deck of the Falcon gazing earnestly toward the rear.
"Star-gazing in the day time?" asked Tom with a laugh.
"Bless my individuality!" exclaimed the odd man. "How you startled me, Tom! No, I'm not looking at stars, but I've been noticing a black speck in the sky for some time, and I was wondering whether it was my eyesight, or whether it really is something."
"Where is it?"
"Straight to the rear," answered Mr. Damon, "and it seems to be about a mile up. It's been hanging in the same place this ten minutes."
"Oh, I see," spoke Tom, when the speck had been pointed out to him. "It's there all right, but I guess it's a bird, an eagle perhaps. Wait, I'll get a glass and we'll take a look."
As he was taking the telescope down from its rack in the pilot house, Mr. Petrofsky saw him.
"What's up?" asked the Russian, and the youth told him.
"Must be a pretty big bird to be seen at such a distance as it is," remarked Tom.
"Maybe it isn't a bird," suggested Ivan Petrofsky. "I'll take a look myself," and, showing something of alarm in his manner, he followed Tom to where Mr. Damon awaited them. Ned also came out on deck.
Quickly adjusting the glass, Tom focused it on the black speck. It seemed to have grown larger. He peered at it steadily for several seconds.
"Is it a bird?" asked Mr. Damon.
"Jove! It's another airship—a big biplane!" cried Tom, "and there seems to be three men in her."
"An aeroplane!" gasped Ned.
"Bless my deflecting rudder!" cried Mr. Damon. "An airship in this out-of-the-way place?" for they were flying over a desolate country.
"And they're coming right after us," added Tom, as he continued to gaze.
"I thought so," was the quiet comment of Mr. Petrofsky. "That is what I started to say a few days ago," he went on, "when I stopped, as I hardly believed it possible. I thought they might possibly send an aeroplane after us, as both the French and Russian armies have a number of fast ones. So they are pursuing us. I'm afraid my presence will bring you no end of trouble."
"Let it come!" cried Tom. "If they can catch up to us they've got a good machine. Come on, Ned, let's speed her up, and make them take more of our star dust."
"Wait a minute," advised the Russian, as he took the telescope from Tom, and viewed the ever-increasing speck behind them. "Are you sure of the speed of this craft?" he asked a moment later.
"I never saw the one yet I couldn't pull away from, even after giving them a start," answered the young inventor proudly. "That is all but my little sky racer. I could let them get within speaking distance, and then pull out like the Congressional Limited passing a slow freight."
"Then wait a few minutes," suggested Mr. Petrofsky. "That is an aeroplane all right, but I can't make out from what country. I'd like a better view, and if it's safe we can come closer."
"Oh, it's safe enough," declared Tom. "I'll get things in shape for a quick move," and he hurried back to the machine room, while the others took turns looking at the oncoming aeroplane. And it was coming on rapidly, showing that it had tremendous power, for it was a very large one, carrying three men.
"How do you suppose they got on our track?" asked Ned.
"Oh, we must have been reported from time to time, as we flew over cities or towns," replied Mr. Petrofsky. "You know we're rather large, and can be seen from a good distance. Then too, the whole Russian secret police force is at the service of our enemies."
"But we're not over Russia yet," said Mr. Damon.
Ivan Petrofsky took the telescope and peered down toward the earth. They were not a great way above it, and at that moment they were passing a small village.
"Can you tell where we are?" asked the odd man.
"We are just over the border of the land of the Czar," was the quiet answer. "The imperial flag is flying from a staff in front of one of the buildings down there. We are over Russia."
"And here comes that airship," called Ned suddenly.
They gazed back with alarm, and saw that it was indeed so. The big aeroplane had come on wonderfully fast in the last few minutes.
"Tom! Tom!" cried his chum. "Better get ready to make a sprint."
"I'm all ready," calmly answered our hero. "Shall I go now?"
"If you can give us a few seconds longer I may be able to tell who is after us," remarked Mr. Petrofsky, turning his telescope on the craft behind them.
"I can let them get almost up to us, and get away," replied Tom.
The Russian did not answer. He was gazing earnestly at the approaching aeroplane. A moment later he took the glass down from his eye.
"It's our spy again," he said. "There are two others with him. That is one of the aeroplanes owned by the secret police. They are stationed all over Europe, ready for instant service, and they're on our trail."
The pursuing craft was so near that the occupants could easily be made out with the naked eye, but it needed the glass to distinguish their features, and Mr. Petrofsky had done this.
"Shall I speed up?" cried Tom.
"Yes, get away as fast as you can!" shouted the Russian. "No telling what they may do," and then, with a hum and a roar the motor of the Falcon increased its speed, and the big airship shot ahead.
From the pursuing aircraft came a series of sharp explosions that fairly rattled through the clear air.
"Look out for bombs!" yelled Ned.
"Bless my safety match!" cried Mr. Damon. "Are they anarchists?"
"It's only their motor back-firing," cried Tom. "It's all right, They're done for now, we'll leave them behind."
He was a true prophet, for with a continued rush and a roar the airship of our friends opened up a big gap between her rear rudders and the forward planes of the craft that was chasing her. The three men were working frantically to get their motor in shape, but it was a useless task.
A little later, finding that they were losing speed, the three police agents, or spies, whatever they might be, had to volplane to earth and there was no need for the Falcon to maintain the terrific pace, to which Tom had pushed her. The pursuit was over.
"Well, we got out of that luckily," remarked Ned, as he looked down to where the spies were making a landing. "I guess they won't try that trick again."
"I'm afraid they will," predicted Mr. Petrofsky. "You don't know these government agents as I do. They never give up. They'll fix their engine, and get on our trail again."
"Then we'll make them work for what they get," put in Tom, who, having set the automatic speed accelerator, had rejoined his companions. "We'll try a high flight and if they can pick up a trail in the air, and come up to us, they're good ones!"
He ran to the pilot house, and set the elevation rudder at its limit. Meanwhile the spies were working frantically over their motor, trying to get it in shape for the pursuit. But soon they realized that this was out of the question, for the Falcon was far away, every moment going higher and higher, until she was lost to sight beyond the clouds.
"I guess they'll have their own troubles now," remarked Ned. "We've seen the last of them."
"Don't be too sure," spoke the Russian. "We may have them after us again. We're over the land of the Czar now, and they'll have everything their own way. They'll want to stop me at any cost."
"Do you think they suspect that we're after the platinum?" asked Tom.
"They may, for they know my brother and I were the only ones who ever located it, though unless I get in the exact neighborhood I'd have trouble myself picking it out. I remember some of the landmarks, but my brother is better at that sort of work than I am. But I think what they are mostly afraid of is that I have some designs on the life of, say one of the Grand Dukes, or some high official. But I am totally opposed to violent measures," went on Mr. Petrofsky. "I believe in a campaign of education, to gain for the down-trodden people what are their rights."
"Do you think they know you are coming to rescue your brother?" asked Tom.
"I don't believe so. And I hope not, for once they suspected that, they would remove him to some place where I never could locate him."
Calmer feelings succeeded the excitement caused by the pursuit, and our friends, speculating on the matter, came to the conclusion that the aeroplane must have started from some Prussian town, as Mr. Petrofsky said there were a number of Russian secret police in that country. The Falcon was now speeding along at a considerable height, and after running for a number of miles, sufficient to preclude the possibility that they could be picked up by the pursuing aeroplane, Tom sent his craft down, as the rarefied atmosphere made breathing difficult.
It was about three days after the chase when, having carefully studied the map and made several observations through the telescope of the Country over which they were traveling, that Ivan Petrofsky said:
"If it can be managed, Tom, I think we ought to go down about here. There is a Russian town not far away, and I know a few friends there, There is a large stretch of woodland, and the airship can be easily concealed there.
"All right," agreed the young inventor, "down we go, and I hope you get the information you want."
Flying high so as to keep out of the observation of the inhabitants of the Russian town, the young inventor sent his craft in a circle about it, and, having seen a clearing in the forest, he made a landing there, the Falcon having come to rest a second time since leaving Shopton, now several thousand miles away.
"We'll hide here for a few days," observed Tom, "and you can spend as much time in town as you like, Mr. Petrofsky."
The Russian, disguising himself by trimming his beard, and putting on a pair of dark spectacles, went to the village that afternoon.
While he was gone Tom, Ned and Mr. Damon busied themselves about the airship, making a few repairs that could not very well be done while it was in motion. As night came on, and the exile did not return, Tom began to get a little worried, and he had some notion of going to seek him, but he knew it would not be safe.
"He'll come all right," declared Ned, as they sat down to supper. All about them was an almost impenetrable forest, cut here and there by paths along which, as Mr. Petrofsky had told them, the wood cutters drove their wagons.
It was quite a surprise therefor, when, as they were leaving the table, a knock was heard on the cabin door.
"Bless my electric bell!" cried Mr. Damon. "Who can that be?"
"Mr. Petrofsky of course," answered Ned.
"He wouldn't knock—he'd walk right in," spoke Tom, as he went to the door. As he opened it he saw several dark-bearded men standing there, and in their midst Mr. Petrofsky.
For one moment our hero feared that his friend had been arrested and that the police had come to take the rest of them into custody. But a word from the exile reassured him.
"These are some of my friends," said Mr. Petrofsky simply. "They are Nihilists which I am not, but—"
"Nihilists yes! Always!" exclaimed one who spoke English. "Death to the Czar and the Grand Dukes! Annihilation to the government!"
"Gently my friend, gently," spoke Mr. Petrofsky. "I am opposed to violence you know." And then, while his new friends gazed wonderingly at the strange craft, he led them inside. Tom and the others were hardly able to comprehend what was about to take place.
"Has anything happened?" asked Tom. "Are we suspected? Have they come to warn us?"
"No, everything is all right, so far," answered Ivan Petrofsky. "I didn't have the success I hoped for, and we may have to wait here for a few days to get news of my brother. But these men have been very kind to me," he went on, "and they have ways of getting information that I have not. So they are going to aid me."
"That's right!" exclaimed the one who had first spoken. "We will yet win you to our cause, Brother Petrofsky. Death to the Czar and the Grand Dukes!"
"Never!" exclaimed the exile firmly. "Peaceful measures will succeed. But I am grateful for what you can do for me. They heard me describe your wonderful airship," he explained to Tom, "and wanted to see for themselves."
The Nihilists were made welcome after Mr. Petrofsky had introduced them. They had strange and almost unpronounceable names for the ears of our friends, and I will not trouble you with them, save to say that the one who spoke English fairly well, and who was the leader, was called Nicolas Androwsky. There was much jabbering in the Russian tongue, when Mr. Petrofsky and Mr. Androwsky took the others about the craft, explaining how it worked.
"I can't show you the air glider," said Tom, who naturally acted as guide, "as it would take too long to put together, and besides there is not enough wind here to make it operate."
"Then you need much wind?" asked Nicolas Androwsky.
"The harder the gale the better she flies," answered Tom proudly.
"Bless my sand bag, but that's right!" exclaimed Mr. Damon, who, up to now had not taken much part in the conversation. He followed the party about the airship, keeping in the rear, and he eyed the Nihilists as if he thought that each one had one or more dynamite bombs concealed on his person.
"Ha!" exclaimed Mr. Androwsky, turning suddenly to the odd man. "Are you not one of us? Do you not believe that this terrible kingdom should be destroyed—made as nothing, and a new one built from its ashes? Are you not one of us?" and with a quick gesture he reached into his pocket.
"No! No!" exclaimed Mr. Damon, starting back. "Bless my election ticket! No! Never could I throw a bomb. Please don't give me one." Mr. Damon started to run away.
"A bomb!" exclaimed the Nihilist, and then he drew from his pocket some pamphlets printed in Russian. "I have no bombs. Here are some of the tracts we distribute to convert unbelievers to our cause," he went on. "Read them and you will understand what we are striving for. They will convert you, I am sure."
He went on, following the rest of the party, while Mr. Damon dropped back with Ned.
"Bless my gas meter!" gasped the odd man, as he stared at the queerly-printed documents in his hand. "I thought he was going to give me a bomb to throw!"
"I don't blame you," said Ned in a low voice. "They look like desperate men, but probably they have suffered many hardships, and they think their way of righting a wrong is the only way. I suppose you'll read those tracts," he added with a smile.
"Hum! I'm afraid not," answered Mr. Damon. "I might just as well try to translate a Chinese laundry check. But I'll save 'em for souvenirs," and he carefully put them in his pocket, as if he feared they might unexpectedly turn into a bomb and blow up the airship.
The tour of the craft was completed and the Nihilists returned to the comfortable cabin where, much to their surprise, they were served with a little lunch, Mr. Damon bustling proudly about from the table to the galley, and serving tea as nearly like the Russians drink it as possible.
"Well, you certainly have a wonderful craft here—wonderful," spoke Mr. Androwsky. "If we had some of these in our group now, we could start from here, hover over the palace of the Czar, or one of the Grand Dukes, drop a bomb, utterly destroy it, and come back before any of the hated police would be any the wiser."
"I'm afraid I can't lend it to you," said Tom, and he could scarcely repress a shudder at the terrible ideas of the Nihilists.
"It would never do," agreed Ivan Petrofsky. "The campaign of education is the only way."
There were gutteral objections on the part of the other Russians, and they turned to more cheerful subjects of talk.
"What are your plans?" asked Tom of the exile. "You say you can get no trace here of your brother?"
"No, he seems to have totally disappeared from sight. Usually we enemies of the government can get some news of a prisoner, but poor Peter is either dead, or in some obscure mine, which is hidden away in the forests or mountains."
"Maybe he is in the lost platinum mine," suggested Ned.
"No, that has not been discovered," declared the exile, "or my friends here would have heard of it. That is still to be found."
"And we'll do it, in the air glider," declared Tom. "By the way, Mr. Petrofsky, would it not be a good plan to ask your friends the location of the place where the winds constantly blow with such force. It occurs to me that in some such way we might locate the mine."
"It would be of use if there was only one place of the gales," replied the exile. "But Siberia has many such spots in the mountain fastnesses—places which, by the peculiar formation of the land, have constant eddys of air over them. No, the only way is for us to go as nearly as possible to the place where my brother and I were imprisoned, and search there."
"But what is that you said about us having to stay here, to get some news of your brother?" asked Tom.
"I had hoped to get some information here," resumed Mr. Petrofsky, "but my friends here are without news. However, they are going to make inquiries, and we will have to stay here until they have an answer. It will be safe, they think, as there are not many police in town, and the local authorities are not very efficient. So the airship will remain here, and, from time to time I will go to the village, disguised, and see if any word has come."
"And we will bring you news as soon as we get it," promised Mr. Androwsky. "You are not exactly one of us, but you are against the government, and, therefor, a brother. But you will be one of us in time."
"Never," replied the exile with a smile. "My only hope now is to get my brother safely away, and then we will go and live in free America. But, Tom, I hope I won't put you out by delaying here."
"Not a bit of it. More than half the object of our trip is to rescue your brother. We must do that first. Now as to details," and they fell to discussing plans. It was late that night when the Nihilists left the airship, first having made a careful inspection to see that they were not spied upon. They promised at once to set to work their secret methods of getting information.
For several days the airship remained in the vicinity of the Russian town. Our friends were undisturbed by visitors, as they were in a forest where the villagers seldom came and the nearest wood-road was nearly half a mile off.
Every day either Mr. Petrofsky went in to town to see the Nihilists or some of them came out to the Falcon, usually at night.
"Well, have you any word yet?" asked Tom, after about a week had passed.
"Nothing yet," answered the exile, and his tone was a bit hopeless. "But we have not given up. All the most likely places have been tried, but he is not there. We have had traces of him, but they are not fresh ones. He seems to have been moved from one mine to another. Probably they feared I would make an attempt to rescue him. But I have not given up. He is somewhere in Siberia."
"And we'll find him!" cried Tom with enthusiasm.
For three days more they lingered, and then, one night, when they were just getting ready to retire, there was a knock on the cabin door. Mr. Petrofsky had been to the village that day, and had received no news. He had only returned about an hour before.
"Some one's knocking," announced Ned, as if there could be any doubt of it.
"Bless my burglar alarm!" gasped Mr. Damon.
"I'll see who it is," volunteered Mr. Petrofsky, and Tom looked toward the rack of loaded rifles, for that day a man, seemingly a wood cutter had passed close to the airship, and had hurried off as if he had seen a ghost.
The knock was repeated. It might be their friends, and it might be—
But Mr. Petrofsky solved the riddle by throwing back the portal, and there stood the Nihilist, Nicolas Androwsky.
"Is there anything the matter?" asked the exile quickly.
"We have news," was the cautious answer, as the Nihilist slipped in, and closed the door behind him.
"News of my brother?"
"Of your brother! He is in a sulphur mine in the Altai Mountains, near the city of Abakansk."
"Where's that?" asked Tom for he had forgotten most of his Russian geography.
"The Altai Mountains are a range about the middle of Siberia," explained Mr. Petrofsky. "They begin at the Kirghiz Steppes, and run west. It is a wild and desolate place. I hope we can find poor Peter alive."
"And this city of Abakansk?" went on the young inventor.
"It is many miles from here, but I can give you a good map," said the Nihilist. "Some of our friends are there," he added with a half-growl. "I wish we could rescue all of them."
"We'd like to," spoke Tom. "But I fear it is impossible. But now that we have a clew, come on! Let's start at once! It may be dangerous to stay here. On to Siberia!"
The news they had waited for had come at last. It might be a false clew, but it was something to work on, and Tom was tired of inaction. Then, too, even after they had started, the prisoner might be moved and they would have to trace him again.
"But that is the latest information we could get," said Mr. Androwsky. "It came through some of our Anarchist friends, and I believe is reliable. Can you soon make a thousand miles in your airship?"
"Yes," answered Tom, "if I push her to the limit."
"Then do so," advised the Nihilist, "for there is need of haste. In making inquiries our friends might incur suspicions and Peter Petrofsky may be exiled to some other place."
"Oh, we'll get there," cried Tom. "Ned, see to the gas machine. Mr. Damon, you can help me in the pilot house."
"Here is a map of the best route," said the Nihilist, as he handed one to Mr. Petrofsky. "It will take you there the shortest way. But how can you steer when high in the air?"
"By compass," explained Tom. "We'll get there, never fear, and we're grateful for your clew."
"I never can thank you enough!" exclaimed the exile, as he shook hands with Mr. Androwsky.
The Nihilist left, after announcing that, in the event of the success of Tom and his friends, and the rescue of the exile from the sulphur mine, it would probably become known to them, as such news came through the Revolutionary channels, slowly but surely.
"Here we go!" cried the young inventor gaily, as he turned the starting lever in the pilot house, and silently, in the darkness of the night, the Falcon shot upward. There was not a light on board, for, though small signal lamps had been kept burning when the craft was in the forest, to guide the Nihilists to her, now that she was up in the air, and in motion, it was feared that her presence would become known to the authorities of the town, so even these had been extinguished.
"After we get well away we can turn on the electrics," remarked Tom, "and if they see us at a distance they may take us for a meteor. But, so close as this, they'd get wise in a minute."
Mr. Damon, who had done all that Tom needed in the starting of the craft, went to the forward port rail, and idly looked down on the black forest they were leaving. He could just make out the clearing where they had rested for over a week, and he was startled to see lights bobbing in it.
"I say, Mr. Petrofsky!" he called. "Did we leave any of our lanterns behind us?"
"I don't believe so," answered the exile. "I'll ask Tom."
"Lanterns? No," answered the young inventor. "Before we started I took down the only one we had out. I'll take a look."
Setting the automatic steering apparatus, he joined Mr. Damon and the Russian. The lights were now dimly visible, moving about in the forest clearing.
"It's just as if they were looking for something," said Tom. "Can it be that any of your Nihilist friends, Mr. Petrofsky are—"
"Friends—no friends—enemies!" cried the Russian. "I understand now! We got away just in time. Those are police agents who are looking for us! They must have received word about our being there. Androwsky and the others never carry lights when they go about. They know the country too well, and then, too, it leads to detection. No, those are police spies. A few minutes later, and we would have been discovered."
"As it is we're right over their heads, and they don't know it," chuckled Tom. The airship was moving silently along before a good breeze, the propellers not having been started, and Tom let her drift for several miles, as he did not want to give the police spies a clew by the noise of the motor.
The twinkling lights in the forest clearing disappeared from sight, and the seekers went on in the darkness.
"Well, we've got the hardest part of our work yet ahead of us," remarked Tom several hours later when, the lights having been set aglow, they were gathered in the main cabin. There was no danger of being seen now, for they were quite high.
"We've done pretty well, so far," commented Ned. "I think we will have easier work rescuing Mr. Petrofsky's brother than in locating the mine.
"I don't know about that," answered the Russian. "It is almost impossible to rescue a person from Siberia. Of course it is not going to be easy to locate the lost mine, but as for that we can keep on searching, that is if the air glider works, but there are so many forces to fight against in rescuing a prisoner."
They had a long journey ahead of them, and not an easy route to follow, but as the days passed, and they came nearer and nearer to their goal, they became more and more eager.
They were passing over a desolate country, for they avoided the vicinity of large towns and cities.
"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.
"Bless my safety valve!" cried Mr. Damon. "Something has gone wrong again."
Tom ran to the motor, and, at the same time the Falcon which was being used as an aeroplane and not as a dirigible, began to sink.
"We're going down!" cried Ned.
"Well, you know what to do!" shouted his chum. "The gas bag! Turn on the generator!"
Ned ran to it, but, in spite of his quick action, the craft continued to slide downward.
"She won't work!" he cried.
"Then the intake pipe must be stopped!" answered the young inventor. "Never mind, I'll volplane to earth and we can make repairs. That magneto has gone out of business again."
"Don't land here!" cried Ivan Petrofsky.
"Why not?"
"Because we are approaching a large town—Owbinsk I think it is—the police there will be there to get us. Keep on to the forest again!"
"I can't!" cried Tom. "We've got to go down, police or no police."
Running to the pilot house, he guided the craft so that it would safely volplane to earth. They could all see that now they were approaching a fairly large town, and would probably land on its outskirts. Through the glass Ned could make out people staring up at the strange sight.
"They'll be ready to receive us," he announced grimly.
"I hope they have no dynamite bombs for us," murmured Mr. Damon. "Bless my watch chain! I must get rid of that Nihilist literature I have about me, or they'll take me for one," and he tore up the tracts, and scattered them in the air.
Meanwhile the Falcon continued to descend.
"Maybe I can make quick repairs, and get away before they realize who we are," said Tom, as he got ready for the landing.
They came down in a big field, and, almost before the bicycle wheels had ceased revolving, under the application of the brakes, several men came running toward them.
"Here they come!" cried Mr. Damon.
"They are only farmers," said the exile. He had donned his dark glasses again, and looked like anything but a Russian.
"Lively, Ned!" cried Tom. "Let's see if we can't make repairs and get off again."
The two lads frantically began work, and they soon had the magneto in running order. They could have gone up as an aeroplane, leaving the repairs to the gas bag to be made later but, just as they were ready to start, there came galloping out a troop of Cossack soldiers. Their commander called something to them.
"What is he saying?" cried Tom to Mr. Petrofsky.
"He is telling them to surround us so that we can not get a running start, such as we need to go up. Evidently he understands aeroplanes."
"Well, I'm going to have a try," declared the young inventor.
He jumped to the pilot house, yelling to Ned to start the motor, but it was too late. They were hemmed in by a cordon of cavalry, and it would have been madness to have rushed the Falcon into them, for she would have been wrecked, even if Tom could have succeeded in sending her through the lines.
"I guess it's all up with us," groaned Ned.
And it seemed to; for, a moment later, an officer and several aides galloped forward, calling out something in Russian.
"What is it?" asked Tom.
"He says we are under arrest," translated the exile.
"What for?" demanded the young inventor.
Ivan Petrofsky shrugged his shoulders.
"It is of little use to ask—now," he answered. "It may be we have violated some local law, and can pay a fine and go, or we may be taken for just what we are, or foreign spies, which we are not. It is best to keep quiet, and go with them."
"Go where?" cried Tom.
"To prison, I suppose," answered the exile. "Keep quiet, and leave it to me. I will do all I can. I don't believe they will recognize me.
"Bless my search warrant!" cried Mr. Damon. "In a Russian prison! That is terrible!"
A few minutes later, expostulations having been useless, our friends were led away between guards who carried ugly looking rifles, and who looked more ugly and menacing themselves. Then the doors of the Russian prison of Owbinsk closed on Tom and his friends, while their airship was left at the mercy of their enemies.
The blow had descended so suddenly that it was paralyzing. Tom and his friends did not know what to do, but they saw the wisdom of the course of leaving everything to Ivan Petrofsky. He was a Russian, and he knew the Russian police ways—to his sorrow.
"I'm not afraid," said Tom, when they had been locked in a large prison room, evidently set apart for the use of political, rather than criminal, offenders. "We're United States citizens, and once our counsel hears of this—as he will—there'll be some merry doings in Oskwaski, or whatever they call this place. But I am worried about what they may do to the Falcon."
"Have no fears on that score," said the Russian exile. "They know the value of a good airship, and they won't destroy her."
"What will they do then?" asked Tom.
"Keep her for their own use, perhaps."
"Never!" cried Tom. "I'll destroy her first!"
"If you get the chance!" interposed the exile.
"But we're American citizens!" cried Tom, "and—"
"You forget that I am not," interrupted Mr. Petrofsky. "I can't claim the protection of your flag, and that is why I wish to remain unknown. We must act quietly. The more trouble we make, the more important they will know us to be. If we hope to accomplish anything we must act cautiously."
"But my airship!" cried Tom.
"They won't do anything to that right away," declared the Russian in a whisper for he knew sometimes the police listened to the talk of prisoners. "I think, from what I overheard when they arrested us, that we either trespassed on the grounds of some one in authority, who had us taken in out of spite, or they fear we may be English or French spies, seeking to find out Russian secrets."
They were served with food in their prison, but to all inquiries made by Ivan Petrofsky, evasive answers were returned. He spoke in poor, broken Russian, so that he would not be taken for a native of that country. Had he been, he would have at once been in great danger of being accused as an escaped exile.
Finally a man who, the exile whispered to his Companions, was the local governor, came to their prison. He eagerly asked questions as to their mission, and Mr. Petrofsky answered them diplomatically.
"I don't think he'll make much out of what I told him," said the exile when the governor had gone. "I let him think we were scientists, or pleasure seekers, airshipping for our amusement. He tried to tangle me up politically, but I knew enough to keep out of such traps."
"What's going to become of us?" asked Ned.
"We will be detained a few days—until they find out more about us. Their spies are busy, I have no doubt, and they are telegraphing all over Europe about us."
"What about my airship?" asked Tom.
"I spoke of that," answered the exile. "I said you were a well-known inventor of the United States, and that if any harm came to the craft the Russian Government would not only be held responsible, but that the governor himself would be liable, and I said that it cost much money. That touched him, for, in spite of their power, these Russians are miserably paid. He didn't want to have to make good, and if it developed that he had made a mistake in arresting us, his superiors would disclaim all responsibility, and let him shoulder the blame. Oh, all is not lost yet, though I don't like the looks of things."
Indeed it began to seem rather black for our friends, for, that night they were taken from the fairly comfortable, large, prison room, and confined in small stone cells down in a basement. They were separated, but as the cells adjoined on a corridor they could talk to each other. With some coarse food, and a little water, Tom and his friends were left alone.
"Say I don't like this!" cried our hero, after a pause.
"Me either," chimed in Ned.
"Bless my burglar alarm!" exclaimed Mr. Damon. "It's an awful disgrace! If my wife ever heard of me being in jail—"
"She may never hear of it!" interposed Tom.
"Bless my heart!" cried the odd man. "Don't say such things."
They discussed their plight at length, but nothing could be done, and they settled themselves to uneasy slumber. For two days they were thus imprisoned, and all of Mr. Petrofsky's demands that they be given a fair trial, and allowed to know the nature of the charge against them, went for naught. No one came to see them but a villainous looking guard, who brought them their poor meals. The governor ignored them, and Mr. Petrofsky did not know what to think.
"Well, I'm getting sick of this!" exclaimed Tom—"I wish I knew where my airship was."
"I fancy it's in the same place," replied the exile. "From the way the governor acted I think he'd be afraid to have it moved. It might be damaged. If I could only get word to some of my Revolutionary friends it might do some good, but I guess I can't. We'll just have to wait."
Another day passed, and nothing happened. But that night, when the guard came to bring their suppers, something did occur.
"Hello! we've got a new one!" exclaimed Tom, as he noted the man. "Not so bad looking, either."
The man peered into his cell, and said something in Russian.
"Nothing doing," remarked the young inventor with a short laugh. "Nixy on that jabbering."
But, no sooner had the man's words penetrated to the cell of Ivan Petrofsky, that the exile called out something. The guard started, hastened to that cell door, and for a few seconds there was an excited dialogue in Russian.
"Boys! Mr. Damon! We're saved!" suddenly cried out Mr. Petrofsky.
"Bless my door knob! You don't say so!" gasped the odd man. "How? Has the Czar sent orders to release us."
"No, but somehow my Revolutionary friends have heard about my arrest, and they have arranged for our release—secretly of course. This guard is affiliated with the Nihilist group that got on the trail of my brother. He bribed the other guard to let him take his place for to-night, and now—"
"Yes! What is it?" cried Tom.
"He's going to open the cell doors and let us out!"
"But how can we get past the other guards, upstairs?" asked Ned.
"We're not going that way," explained Mr. Petrofsky. "There is a secret exit from this corridor, through a tunnel that connects with a large salt mine. Once we are in there we can make our way out. We'll soon be free."
"Ask him if he's heard anything of my airship?" asked Tom. Mr. Petrofsky put the question rapidly in Russian and then translated the answer.
"It's in the same place."
"Hurray!" cried Tom.
Working rapidly, the Nihilist guard soon had the cell doors open, for he had the keys, and our friends stepped out into the corridor.
"This way," called Ivan Petrofsky, as he followed their liberator, who spoke in whispers. "He says he will lead us to the salt mine, tell us how to get out and then he must make his own escape."
"Then he isn't coming with us?" asked Ned.
"No, it would not be safe. But he will tell us how to get out. It seems that years ago some prisoners escaped this way, and the authorities closed up the tunnel. But a cave-in of the salt mine opened a way into it again."
They followed their queer guide, who led them down the corridor. He paused at the end, and then, diving in behind a pile of rubbish, he pulled away some boards. A black opening, barely large enough for a man to walk in upright, was disclosed.
"In there?" cried Tom.
"In there," answered Mr. Petrofsky. He and the guard murmured their good-byes, and then, with a lighted candle the faithful Nihilist had provided, and with several others in reserve, our friends stepped into the blackness. They could hear the board being pulled back into place behind them.
"Forward!" cried the exile, and forward they went.
It was not a pleasant journey, being through an uneven tunnel in the darkness. Half a mile later they emerged into a large salt mine, that seemed to be directly beneath the town. Work in this part had been abandoned long ago, all the salt there was left being in the shape of large pillars, that supported the roof. It sparkled dully in the candle light.
"Now let me see if I remember the turnings," murmured Mr. Petrofsky. "He said to keep on for half an hour, and we would come out in a little woods not far from where our airship was anchored."
Twisting and turning, here and there in the semi-darkness, stumbling, and sometimes falling over the uneven floor, the little party went on.
"Did you say half an hour?" asked Tom, after a while.
"Yes," replied the Russian.
"We've been longer than that," announced the young inventor, after a look at his watch. "It's over an hour."
"Bless my timetable!" cried Mr. Damon.
"Are you sure?" asked Mr. Petrofsky.
"Yes," answered Tom in a low voice.
The Russian looked about him, flashing the candle on several turnings and tunnels. Suddenly Ned uttered a cry.
"Why, we passed this place a little while before!" he said. "I remember this pillar that looks like two men wrestling!"
It was true. They all remembered it when they saw it again.
"Back in the same place!" mused the Russian. "Then we have doubled on our tracks. I'm afraid we're lost!"
"Lost in a Russian salt mine!" gasped Tom, and his words sounded ominous in that gloomy place.