Tom descended, somewhat unwillingly. Nothing would have pleased him better than to steer directly for the vessel, and see what effect was produced on board by the sight of this strange bird of passage hovering above the tops. But clearly Mr. Greatorex was right, and Tom lowered the machine deftly to the deck. As the ship was heading straight for the yacht, the aeroplane was covered with tarpaulin.
The vessel turned out to be a cruiser flying the French colours. The captain spoke the yacht, and asked whether anything had been seen from its deck of an extraordinary object that appeared to have been moving through the air.
“Answer him, Tom. I’m no good at French.”
“We did see something, monsieur le capitaine,” he said, “Do you know whether Monsieur Santos-Dumont is trying his thirty-third airship?”
“I am not aware, monsieur. It may be. I saw the object very indistinctly. It suddenly disappeared.”
“Ah! I was always afraid that Monsieur Santos-Dumont would meet his death. You French, monsieur, are such adventurous spirits! When you reach Brest perhaps you will inquire whether he has recently made an ascent.”
“I will certainly do so, monsieur.”
The vessels were now out of speaking distance. Tom explained to Mr. Greatorex what he had said.
“Bravo! What with my cooling apparatus and your cool cheek I think we are keeping our secret pretty well, Tom.”
In order to escape further observation from passing vessels Mr. Greatorex had the yacht’s course set considerably westward of the usual track. It was consequently another couple of days before she came into the latitude of Rabat, the port for which she was making. Her head was turned eastward in the direction of the coast of Morocco, and, there being no vessels in sight, Tom again made an ascent, Timothy accompanying him.