“Yes, she’s turning our way. Ah! that’s better. How delicate this glass is!”
I then described to him the prominent parts of the Attila more or less in detail.
“Is the deck crowded?”
“No; there are several men round the battery near the citadel, but the rest of the deck is deserted. Here, try again. The view now is splendid.”
The glass once more changed hands.
“What a sight!” ejaculated my companion, having succeeded in “spotting” the aëronef. “Why, I can see the whole thing just as if it was only across the road. Just as you described it, too. By the way, there is a solitary individual pacing the fore-deck frantically. He seems terribly excited about something. More mischief doubtless.”
“Describe him!” I cried eagerly.
“Easier said than done,”—he had said a moment before that the whole thing was as clear as if it was only across the road,—“but he seems very tall, rather dark, with a thick black beard, and he holds some letter in his hand, which he kisses and then brandishes fiercely.”
“Hartmann, by all that’s holy!” Vindictively I bethought me of the letter, and the miserable reports of failure which Norris and his men must have delivered.
“I should say he is the captain or some other boss in authority, for, see, a gunner comes up and salutes him. Ha, he must be angry! He dismisses the man fiercely, and seems once more to devour the letter.”