“Never saw him looking better.” It was Peterson who spoke. “He had a good rest last night. I saw to that.”
The men entered the plane; the one whom the crowd had acclaimed as Branson took the pilot’s seat. The propeller whirled; the plane rolled heavily along the ground.
As it gained speed, it slowly rose in the air, and its wings, flashing in the dawn, gave it the appearance of a graceful bird.
The Silver Comet, it was called, and as it headed toward the northeast, it ascended higher and sped onward, until it became a silver speck in the clear sky.
The crowd broke into little groups; then disbanded. A solemnity had fallen over the people gathered at the flying field.
Two men had left America. They were matching their man-made bird against the mighty pitfalls of the great Atlantic. They were attempting a transoceanic flight.
That afternoon the papers reported that the plane flown by Lieutenant Raymond Branson had been sighted off the Maine coast. Later reports stated that it had been seen near Newfoundland.
All touch with the aviators had been lost. Hours passed with no report of their progress. The flight had been delayed by head winds; it was certain that the aviators were behind their anticipated schedule.
Some thirty-six hours after the take-off, there was a rumor that the plane had been seen above Ireland.
It was believed that the fliers were keeping on to continental Europe. They had run into night, and it was impossible to trace them.