The young aviators had not been given any advance notice of just where this day’s journey was expected to take them; they only knew that there was to be a beginning. The end was not until they reached it.
Strogoff was not inclined to be bubbling with information, either, this crisp morning. Following the boys’ usual careful inspection of the flying machines, the startling words were simply: “Down the river.” Additional orders were to fly low.
Having no trouble to compass a course, merely to follow the flow of the broad Vistula, the pilots were completely at ease. Under them were the famous No. 3’s, the finest military biplanes, in their opinion, that ever crossed the country.
In the current below could be seen at intervals all sorts of steam and sailing craft, iron-sided or slab-sided, modern and ancient, but the space-filling observer in Billy’s biplane, with constant level of field glasses, had no disposition to waste a word upon any of them.
A certain slow-moving tub, with “49” showing at the beam, would have caused lung expansion for the heavyweight, but that particular brand of boat had yet to be discovered.
It was 10:20 o’clock by Billy’s watch when a smart tap on the shoulder roused him from some day dream of far-off Bangor or Boston, and made him set a little tighter grip on the steering wheel.
At the junction of the Vistula and one of the numerous smaller rivers emptying into the big channel, several little dispatch boats were chugging around a large freighter, plowing northward. The hulk was easing its way at the challenge of the mosquito fleet.
“To the ground,” commanded the sergeant, when he had secured the attention of the pilot.
Billy nicely figured a stop on the river bank within a stone’s throw of the watercraft argument. Henri followed suit with equal exactness of placing.
Megaphoning through the hollow of his joined hands, Strogoff brought one of the light draught dispatch boats close to the shore.