"I certainly do," chuckled John; "but you forget one thing, young man: that same evening, all in a moment's time, we crossed the One Hundred and Eightieth Meridian—the date-line of the world—and while it was Thursday, the 27th on the west side of this line, it became Wednesday, the 26th the instant we crossed over to the east side."
"Oh, sure!" exclaimed Bob and Paul, feeling very silly. And the latter added: "That's where we gain a day in our lives—and to think that Bob and I were asleep at that auspicious moment!"
"I know an old maid who swears she is fifteen years younger than she really looks," commented Tom. "I think she must have done a lot of globe trotting, and always east!"
"There's no danger of the fair sex ever circling the globe in a westerly direction," laughed John, "for that would make them one day older every time."
The day could not have been better. Hardly a cloud was to be seen on the horizon, and the regular trade-winds blowing westward were soft and steady, and they were making excellent time.
Grandpa frisked about, perching on this object and that, and occasionally running back into some secret nook where he had hidden his supply of nuts. With one of these in his paw he would jump up on something, crack it in his powerful small jaws, and look very wise and serious as he picked out the meats with his slim fingers.
Finally the monkey had his fill, and hopped up into Tom's lap. He began to play with Tom's hair, smoothing it down pretty soon with the flyer's comb, which he discovered in a pocket. So handy was Grandpa with this utensil that the others went into peals of laughter. Tiring of this, the monkey's eye caught sight of several freckles upon the back of Tom's hand. He tried in vain to pick the freckles off; then he became excited, for he could not understand why they would not lift up. He chattered scoldingly at everybody; then tried again. Failing, he sprang down and went to a far corner, in a fine sulk. Evidently he thought Tom was playing a trick on him, and had glued the freckles down someway just to tease him; for Tom, it must be admitted, was greatly given to bothering Grandpa in some such manner.
Shortly before ten o'clock the following morning all hands were up to take a look at their next stopping-off place—Nukahiva, the main island of the Marquesas group, the place where they hoped to find a supply of helium-gas awaiting them.
A fine island this—as fine a volcanic upheaval as one will find anywhere. Sheer walls of cloud-capped rock 6,000 feet high, some literally overhanging the crystal-clear water, and all embossed and engraved with strangely patterned basalt. There are pillars, battlements, and turrets; so that, with half-closed eyes, it seems you are approaching a temple, a medieval castle, or a mosque of the East. And the valleys—deep, choked with the most rampant growths of luxuriant vegetation, in the heart of which silvery streams gurgle their way tortuously along—fade away into mysterious purple mists. Small wonder that this gorgeously beautiful island should have been the home for a century of one of the finest races of primitive people the world has ever known! Sad indeed is it that to-day the Marquesans are rapidly dying off from consumption and fever introduced into their fair domain by civilization itself.
Nestling in a good-sized valley near the harbor our flyers saw scores of native houses, as they drew nearer. These were constructed of yellow bamboo, tastefully twisted together in a kind of wickerwork, and thatched with the long tapering leaves of the palmetto. Here, too, was the big white T of their hopes.