“And at twelve o’clock,” said Ned, “remember that coffee and food is due.”
With a last examination of all ports and doors, at ten o’clock, Ned at the barometer and barograph and Roy at the aerometer and statoscope, Alan headed the Flyer still further skyward. At twelve o’clock, midnight, the following entry appeared in the Flyer log:
“June 22, 12 midnight. Have made 439 miles since 9, 48´ 24´´. Time between observations 2, 11´ 36´´ or 3.33 miles a minute. Between 3.40 and 3.50 miles a minute expected on 1,451.1 miles yet to be covered. All suffering from cold. Thermometer 6° above zero. Altitude 24,612 feet. No trouble with fuel or oil. Lubricator heaters turned on at 10.30 o’clock. Air funnel working well but must be watched closely. On instructions from Captain Napier New York time now substituted for London time. New York time of this entry is 7 P. M.”
For seven long hours after this entry was made in the log of the Ocean Flyer, the giant airship sped like a shooting star toward the distant west. Above the clouds and above the unseen sea, it held its course with never a lessening beat of its ceaseless engines. To most of those within the spectre shape, time and distance had now lost their meaning. Each port and window was heavy with frost and each occupant was shivering from the intense cold. By ten o’clock few sounds were heard except the heavy purr of the engine and the vibrant notes of the great wings as they cracked in the wintry air. Talk had ceased except in the few low words that passed at intervals between the man at the wheel and Roy at the observer’s table—the limbs of the latter stiff under the furs he wore but his brain active under the pressure of the work that meant so much to all.
Mr. Ballard was yet silent beneath extra clothing and blankets. In the next room the photographer shivered beneath the doubled bed covers. Buck and Mr. Clarke sat with Bob in the engine room, cold but philosophical, making talk of the journey and what it meant. After thirteen hours of work, the coronation story and Mr. Bowman’s pictures were ready for the Herald. Copy and pictures, carefully marked and sealed, were enclosed in wrappings. Four hours more and the strain would be at an end—or worse.
A stupor had fallen on the physical activity of Ned, Alan and Bob. But their mental alertness had not dulled. With no more words than were necessary, the three young men guided the wonderful craft onward as they steeled themselves against the dread of failure and the numbing cold. Just after ten o’clock, New York time, Buck served hot tea to the silent ones in the pilot room.
“We’re almost over the ocean, aren’t we?” he asked, chattering.
“I think we were over Newfoundland about nine thirty o’clock,” answered Ned in a tired voice. “What’s the time, now?” he asked abruptly of Alan who was then at the wheel.
“Ten six,” was the brief answer.
“And the course?” he added, facing Roy.