After a hearty attack on the food supply of the sea-plane, the captain, behind a pipeful of the stoutest tobacco to be found on the continent, announced that there would be no flying that night. The skipper of a fishing smack had just brought in the rumor from Dover that several bombs had been dropped from hostile aëroplanes upon that famous fortified naval harbor. The skipper had also heard that the damage inflicted by the bombs was light. The captain, under the circumstances, could not well afford to take chances with a costly machine that did not belong to him, by night flight. With such rumors on the wireless flashing down the coast, there was no telling what might happen to an aviator who could not show his colors.
From this it may be surmised that the captain had no instructions to put the boys on the night express from Calais to Paris.
“Say, captain, how long do we have to stay here?”
Henri had set to angling for information.
“Overnight, anyhow,” briefly replied the captain. The truth of the matter is, he was secretly enjoying this bit of teasing, and, further, he was himself in doubt until a certain messenger should arrive with a wired for permit to use the sea-plane out of designated area.
Here the magic in the name of the authority to whom the captain had appealed that day in Calais was first in evidence. Though all people in the town were forbidden to ride on bicycles after 9 p. m., this rigid rule then prevailing was apparently not enforced against a wheelman who arrived at the Maritime station at 10 o’clock, with a yellow envelope addressed to Captain Johnson.
The captain read the message, pocketed it, knocked the ashes out of his pipe, told Josh to set the lights in the floating sea-plane and to take the first watch, promising relief at 1 o’clock. The friendly skipper invited them all to spread their blankets on the deck of the smack.
At dawn the sea-plane splashed a start and took to the air.
“We’re off for Havre!”
This from the man at the wheel.