Just below them, a big liner, looking like a toy, nosed westward, and as Van Arden gently dropped the ship to a still lower level, the steamer sent three puffs of smoke from her funnels in greeting. No other craft was in sight. As the sun rose, the sparkle and brilliance increased. Already a dull smudge on the horizon revealed itself plainly as the eastern continent. They sped along at an altitude of one thousand feet.
Someone opened a window, and the sweet clean air rushed through the salon. Dulcie buttoned her sweater, and sniffed the air appreciatively as she gazed.
“Doesn’t it look happy?” she said.
David, firmly but kindly escorted to his room by Mr. Hammond, slept for two blissful hours. Then he was awakened by his newly-acquired sense of responsibility, a sense ingrained in the minds of masters of all crafts, either of sea or air. He leaped up, perfectly refreshed, and ready for anything.
Mr. Hammond was sitting by the window.
“I wanted to see you as soon as you waked up, Ellison, so I came back here to get a little rest and quiet, myself. You can’t hear yourself think out there in the salon. All the passengers are telling their various experiences during the storm!
“I have arranged to leave Captain Fraine and Lieutenant Florsheim at Friedrichshafen for hospital treatment. They are pretty sick men, Dr. Forsythe says. I had planned to take on someone there to fill Captain Fraine’s place but, David, I am convinced that you can do it. After your performance last night, I am positive that you are capable of handling any situation.” He rose, his kindly face beaming. “I congratulate you, Captain Ellison. It is a big job, but you will swing it!” He shook hands, and was gone.
David stood staring into limitless space.
“Dad!” he whispered; “are you glad?”
The radio was again in working order, and the operators had sent messages back to Ayre, and long radiograms were sent to the news syndicates of New York, Berlin, Petrograd, and Tokio by the reporters, each eager to turn in the best story of the storm.