"More like two," said the motorman. "I lay she'll be in Portsmouth afore I'm half-a-mile up road. Good-night, farmer, I'm off to the Three Waggoners."
"Bust if I don't go, too. There be summat to wet our whistles on to-night, eh, men?"
CHAPTER II
EASTWARD HO!
Before the farmer reached the hospitable door of the Three Waggoners, Smith had made his descent upon a broad open space in his father's park near Cosham. There stood the large shed in which he housed the aeroplane; adjoining it were a number of workshops. It was quite dark now, and no one was about; but Smith clearly had no intention of putting his machine up for the night. As soon as he came to the ground he hurried off on foot in one direction, Rodier on a bicycle in another, their purposeful movements betokening a course of action arranged during the few minutes' conversation at the farm.
Smith walked rapidly through the park, and, entering the house, found his mother placidly knitting on a settee in the large old-fashioned hall.
"Ah, my dear boy," she said, as he appeared; "how late you are, and how dirty! We have waited dinner for you."
"You shouldn't have done that, mother," he replied cheerfully; "though it's very good of you."
"Well, you see, it's your last night with us for ever so long, and with Tom and your father away—"