“Afternoon it is, if you say so! But we've got to work, to do it!”
By noon they had gathered together all the freight they meant to carry, and--though the sun had dimmed behind dull clouds of a peculiar slaty gray, that drifted in from eastward--had prepared for the flight to Boston. After a plentiful dinner of venison, berries and breadfruit, they loaded the machine.
Stern calculated that, with Beatrice as a passenger, he could carry seventy-five or eighty pounds of freight. The two rifles, ammunition, knives, ax, tools and provisions they packed into the skin sack Beatrice had prepared, weighed no more than sixty. Thus Stern reckoned there would be a fair “coefficient of safety” and more than enough power to carry them with safety and speed.
It was at 1:15 that the girl took her place in the passenger's seat and let Stern strap her in.
“Your first flight, little girl?” he asked smiling, yet a trifle grave. The barking motor almost drowned his voice.
She nodded but did not speak. He noted the pulse in her throat, a little quick, yet firm.
“You're positive you're not going to be afraid?”
“How could I, with you?”
He made all secure, climbed up beside her, and strapped himself in his seat.
Then he threw in the clutch and released the brake.