'She is a beautifully designed structure in every way,' observed Monck. 'One of the latest and best, and also one of the fastest of our pleasure yachts.'
Meanwhile, a little apart, Tom Clinch and Bob Reid sat together, staring about, noticing everything, and making their comments in low, awe-struck tones.
'Well, well! that ever I should live t' see the likes o' this!' said Clinch. 'What d'ye think of it all, Bob?'
'I 'm thinkin' what 'd happen if she was t' shift 'er ballast, Tom. I do 'ope it be well stowed.'
'Ay, ay, Bob. Theer be a lot in the way a ship be ballasted. But 'ow do she manage t' keep up? That 's what beats me! Them wings scarcely moves at all.'
'Tom,' said Reid, leaning over to speak almost in a whisper, 'don't ye notice what queer sort o' air this be 'ere? 'Tain't a bit like ourn at 'ome.'
'No, it ain't. I notices that. What about it?'
'It must be some o' the liquid air I've read of, as scientific chaps thinks a lot of in our world. Depend on it, this is where it comes from!'
Tom slapped his thigh.
'Right ye are, mate! That explanations it. That 's 'ow 'tis she floats like this 'ere. They be all a-livin' 'ere in liquid air! An' them wings bain't wings at all! They be fins!'