“You may start at once.”
Slowly and gently, like the Alpine pebble that starts the avalanche, the eleven foot “moon propellers” began moving. Taking time to draw on his sweater, Ned hurried aft on the gallery to the companionway leading to the upper gallery and thence to the top deck. As he appeared on this the propellers had already attained a speed that drove the near-by spectators to flight. Then, suddenly, the streams of compressed air began to sing in the terrifying moan of a coming cyclone. As Ned made his way forward on the narrow elevated deck the storm broke; the cyclone burst.
Under the most powerful propellers ever made, the Ocean Flyer surrendered. It ran forward twenty yards as if trying to escape the terrific power grasping it, tossed its head sideways two or three times and then, the ingenuity of man annihilating gravity, the heavy airship left the ground. As if falling from a great height, it plunged forward at increased speed. The seventeen hour flight had begun.
CHAPTER XIV
CAPTAIN NAPIER’S NERVE IN MID-AIR SAVES THE CARGO
When Captain Ned, leaning backward over the lower gallery rail, gave the order to start, his eye caught sight of the Herald burgee flying from the jack staff above. By deduction he guessed that the Flyer’s own flag was also displayed. In fact, both had been raised by Bob at the last moment. With a frown Ned had hurried to the top deck. To fly over New York Bay with these emblems prominently displayed in the breeze was a plain advertisement to any observer of the identity of the aeroplane and its connection with the paper. While the airship began to rise to a steadier flight Ned dropped each flag and, without waiting to furl or make them fast, sprang down the ladder again.
“We started two minutes and twenty-eight seconds late,” exclaimed Roy as Ned at last entered the pilot room. “To reach the tug we ought to do a mile in forty-four seconds.”
“Take it easy,” answered Ned. “If they are ready on time, a minute or two won’t make any difference. They can wait. How is she?” he went on in a more concerned voice, turning to Alan who was taking the first trick at the wheel.
“All right,” was the only response from the associate pilot, who did not even turn his head, and whose strained expression showed that his mind was on but one thing—the waiting tug and its valuable freight. This first stage of the overseas flight was too short and too low to call for either observation or compass reckoning and Roy, the observer, was standing at the open port door.
“I think you’ve got your eight hundred feet,” was his sudden, experienced comment.