“Good-bye! Good-bye!”
“This is ripping,” said the stoker, as the machine rose higher and higher into the air.
Tom started so violently that he unconsciously jerked back the lever and stopped the motion of the machine.
“Pull that lever, quick!” he called.
“Done it already,” said the stoker, with his hand on the lever that adjusted the planes. “Lucky I’ve been up before, Dorrell.”
“Good heavens, you’re—yes, you’re Oliphant. Whew! won’t the old man be in a tantrum. How in the world did you disguise yourself?”
“Sammy Byles’ clothes, a little lampblack, and my native brogue do make a difference, don’t they! I’m afraid Mr. Greatorex will be a trifle fizzy; but that won’t matter, afterwards.”
“I’m not sure I oughtn’t to go back and drop you.”
“Nonsense. I’m in for it now, and when you come to think of it you couldn’t have a better man. Bar Timothy, nobody knows so much about the machine as I do; and I warrant I’m a better hand in a scrimmage, whether with fists or revolvers. I’ve brought my Colt.”
It was some time before Tom recovered from his surprise; but for the moment his attention was occupied by the airship. At last he said—