They followed the course of the river, as the crow flies, land crossing and cutting out the big bends, and with never a mishap, so perfectly were the machines adjusted and so expertly managed—a master hand at every wheel.
Billy said to Jimmy that surely Joseph’s coat never had as many buttons on it as there were towns, little and big, along this line of travel.
But when he looked down on Paris, on its quays and embankments, on its magnificent public squares, on its beautiful gardens, on its lofty towers, all surrounded by twenty-two miles of fortifications, Billy rested on the guiding wheel in silent admiration.
The grim visage of war was pale in the distance.
CHAPTER XXXVI.
THE WAY THAT WENT WRONG.
Along the outworks of Paris our Aviator Boys had the delight of hearing of the war exploits of some of the greatest airmen of their time, Paulhan, the hero of the English tour from London to Manchester; Brindejonc des Moulinais, Garros, Vedrines, and last, but not least, the very Gilbert LeFane, whom they had followed through the air from Havre to the capital.
While it had been said that French aëroplanes had never been seen above the French lines, though many machines of the opposing power were constantly reconnoitering over the heads of the French soldiers, it was well known within the circle that this aviation corps had been operating not only on the German lines, but considerably to the rear of them, and many and brilliant were the achievements of intimate record.
Within the first few hours after their arrival in Paris—not the laughter-loving city of yesterday, but the militant Paris of to-day—the boys had a glimpse of the military dictator, the commanding figure of the hour, General Joffre, on whom all France relies—a man of medium height, stout, with a massive head, thick drooping mustache, and heavy eyebrows nearly concealing his eyes.
As Gilbert remarked, “he had an easy-going manner until he sets his jaws. By the way,” he added, “how would you like to show him what the new machines can do?”