“Mr. Russell tells me the new ‘Flyer’ did all you expected of it,” said the engineer.
“It’ll do two hundred miles at sea level when it’s tuned up,” answered Ned proudly.
“Then you’ll certainly make your ocean flight?” suggested the engineer.
The boys immediately explained in brief the new program. The engineer heard them soberly.
“In that event,” he said at once, “you’d better take several days for experimenting with the wind and speed pressure of the new car. I can’t guarantee that the figures made for the other machines will apply to this one. I’ll come to the works in the morning and make the kite and ground records while you young gentlemen get me the flight pressures of the ‘Flyer’ under all conditions.”
“Fine,” exclaimed Alan. “You know you’ll have to project a new ocean course for us with all the variations, sailing rhumbs and course alterations.”
“From New York to London?” asked the engineer nodding his head. “I wish you could have counted on the stops at St. Johns and Cape Clear in Ireland. I’d have felt better about it,” he continued turning to his desk and opening a large portfolio. “That chart is ready.”
“Let’s have a look,” exclaimed Ned.
On a United States Hydrographic Office “Pilot Chart of the North Atlantic Ocean,” the boys traced a slightly circular line reaching from St. Johns in Newfoundland to Brow Head and Cape Clear, in Ireland just below which appeared the little dot indicating Fastnet Light, the first old world signal to passengers from America. Far north of any steamer route, the seeming curve of the lieutenant’s projected line of flight was seen to be really a succession of straight lines—the sailing variations and compass courses from hour to hour.
In neat engineering letters, in a vacant place on the map, was this memorandum: “From St. Johns, Newfoundland, to Fastnet Rock, Ireland, by great circle is 1666 miles. Initial course is N. 66 E. true. Final course is S. 81 E. Therefore you port one-eighth of a point every seventy-five miles easting.”