“Until we leave Acton at two o’clock,” was Ned’s sober reply.
“Bring her down to seven hundred feet,” came a sharp order from Buck.
All looked up in surprise and Ned even chuckled. It was apparent that the new pilot had taken charge in reality. Before Oxford was reached the shadowy east had formed itself into the cloud that always hangs over a great city. The moors and farms of west England had long since merged into the park like places and estates in which rose the country homes of wealth and the nobility. Even at 700 feet these fled beneath the speeding car until all detail was lost. Railway lines, vine-clad stations, the picturesque cots of rural hamlets were almost a blur. But they all meant one thing—London was near.
As the silver thread of the Thames at Oxford crossed their flight there was a new order from Buck. Ignoring the chart course of S. E. 7/8 E. he moved his hand to the right, peering ahead, until he gave the word “hold her!”
Alan at the wheel seemed in doubt and showed it.
“I’m doin’ this,” exclaimed Buck. “See those two towers dead ahead? Well, they’re Windsor Castle.” Ned and Roy sprang to the lookout.
“Was that bunch of gray towers Oxford?” asked Buck craning his neck astern.
“And that’s Windsor ahead?” inquired Ned with no less interest. “This is certainly a fine way to study a new country.”
“I wouldn’t reckon Windsor was on our course,” argued Alan.
“It isn’t much off it,” explained Buck. “But you’ve got to remember I know London suburbs from the ground—not from the sky. It’s twenty-one miles from Windsor to Fleet Street. And it’s twenty-one miles of as windin’ roads and streets as ever were made; suburbs and cemeteries, prisons and gas works, remnants of old parks and flower spotted new ones; old mansions goin’ to ruin in a world of tradesmen’s villas and bungalows; electric trams and windin’ railroads—”