The aviators looked down for a fleeting moment on one of the large channel steamers, somewhat out of its course, and instantly whirled about, flying like the homing pigeon, and exactly as the compass set the lines.
Each monoplane trailed a black streamer.
The sailor at the masthead caught the color in his glasses.
And drawing nearer the aviators, caught their signal to descend.
It is a nice piece of work to drop an aëroplane upon the deck of a wave-rocked ship, and in this instance it was a nice piece of work nicely done.
There was a gleam of approbation in the cold gray eyes of Roque, when the machines floated in and nested without strain or creak upon the foredeck.
“I see that I sized you about right,” he said, and it could be plainly inferred that he accepted the exhibit largely as a vindication of his own judgment.
True for Roque, for it had been said that he seldom erred in matters of this kind.
It was also evident that the color of the signal streamer was the one to his liking, for, with a great flurry of orders, the vessel, under full head of steam, hastened its hunt for the big channel boat, as located by the aviators.
As they ran in course, the channel steamer was crossing the line followed by the fast-approaching German vessel. The latter, moving free, could easily overhaul the cargo-laden ship, straightway, and more surely in crossway.