Havre, at the mouth of the Seine, and the sea-port for Paris, next to Marseilles the most important in France.
Henri now had a fair idea of the route they were to follow.
“It’s simply great of you, captain,” acclaimed Henri.
“I said ‘near, if not quite,’ you remember,” trumpeted the captain, for the noise of the flying machine would have drowned any softer sound.
“Oh, you Havre!” cried Jimmy, when shipmasts loomed like a forest of bare poles far below.
With marked precision and care, the captain swung into the port, which thousands of water-craft entered every year.
The coming of the sea-plane had evidently been heralded by a swifter agent of the air, the wonderful wireless, for no sooner had the flying machine found clear space in the basin, than it was rapidly approached by a small motor-boat, in which were seated three men, the one looking out from the elevated bow exhibiting an empty coat sleeve and the glitter of an honor decoration upon his breast.
“Is it Rue Castiglione?” he hailed.
“No; it is Rue de Rivoli,” called the captain.
Only names of noted boulevards in Paris—and evidently used in agreement to insure recognition.