Never comes a morn without much for them to do. For him there are ships to be tided from shore to shore, flying things of the air to be cradled when in need of rest, myriads of monsters and minnows to be fed, shells, pearls and corals to fashion in his spare time. And she never rests from dawn to dark in her effort to keep the sky clear that she may smile something of her own vitality into all living things under her eye, be they fishes of the sea, fowl of the air, or man from the various islands which so irritate her irascible consort.
All looks well for her now, unless——
An over-shoulder glance she casts about the horizon. There is an ominous look over there, a somewhat darker speck against the banks of gray. Are her archest enemies, the trio of fire-eyed Cyclops, planning interference with the mercies of her upper air?
No matter what portends, she must awaken her lord. Usually he scowls for hours should she be late about his call. Forcing a smile, she droops over him until, with bride-like ardor, she kisses him on the lips. A moment his watery eyes gaze into hers. Then he gulps from pleasure at the desirable sight of her; lurches toward her; makes a clutch at her scant draperies.
But not for a moment does she allow herself to be caught to his moist, palpitant breast. Something immediate demands her attention. She makes excuse—a monster beetle without wings then appearing from the direction of land. With sweet-soft adjurations that her lazy old Sea fall not again into a doze, she hurries to meet and greet the gleaming thing.
Nothing had Dolores seen of the dirigibles of Earth, save far-up glimpses of those which occasionally passed over her New York. Now, with amaze, she noted the proportions of the air-liner which had intruded into the reflection of dawn at sea. In the wan light, it looked to surpass the largest ocean steamship she had seen and held its course steadily, as though its blunt nose were cleaving waves of water, rather than of atmosphere. Through the slow rise of the sun an idea of its speed was given.
Silver-jacketed it was, cigar-shaped and massively concrete on its atmospheric track. Her credulity was taxed, however, to realize that this at which she gazed was no vision, such as that dreamed by Kipling in “The Night Mail,” but a scene of the moment in the mortal world. Actual as though she were watching from some anchored ship nearby were the colors of the wingless beetle and the very vaguest tints of water and sky.
As the aluminum-painted envelope seemed about to pass from sight across the rim of the prismatic pool, some shift of the reflecting machinery refound it and gave a closer view. The deck was shown, studded with cabins and protected by shields of glass. Although lacking the width of the modern ocean vessel, it was comfortably roomy, to judge by the steamer chairs being placed about for late-sleeping passengers. As an assurance that this was no cinematograph picture, the sailor figures engaged did not move about with the artificial speed which so often discounts the realism of the film, but with that deliberation and casualness peculiar to the life which is realer than “reel.”
“Some jump from the day when they flew wooden kites over oil engines, isn’t it?”