Dear Swan:
Your night letter enchants me. I rejoice that you’ve such a big chance before you. And if you don’t uphold the honor of the family I’ll lay the curse of Saint Morvin on you. He’s little known, but most efficacious.
I’ll pray for you. As a child you had a bad way of leaning out of upstairs windows. Have the ship screened.
Your devoted and loving brother,
John.
David laughed. “He must be a card, all right.”
“Well, he’s not so bad,” said Red. “A kindly priest, and a good son to his mother. David, I’m all set for the take-off.”
So was David. On the morning of the fifteenth, he was the first man at the hangar, and it was his hand that pressed the lever, putting in motion the mechanism that slid back the great doors.
It was not yet dawn, but a vast mob packed the field. For months the building of the great dirigible had been followed, detail by detail, by an interested public. Her plans, charts and dimensions had appeared in all the leading newspapers and magazines, accompanied by long articles.
Finally came the news of her completion. The announcement of the round-the-world flight as her maiden effort was the spark which caused the enthusiasm of the public to burst into flame. A year ago they had watched the detailed accounts of the Graf Zeppelin, as radiograms marked her flight.
Now a ship of their own; an American ship financed with American money and manned, from the commander down, with Americans, was to essay the same journey, hoping to better the time of the Graf Zeppelin. The papers devoted pages to the anticipated adventure. Radiograms, cables, letters of congratulation and good wishes, invitations from half the countries of Europe asking Mr. Hammond to detour in their several directions and stop off, were printed for the pleasure of a public which felt a proprietary interest in the Moonbeam.