A minute later the roar of the motor, as he set it going, drowned all other sounds. But the lad caught above the uproar of the engine Lieutenant De Frees' shouted farewell:
"Good luck, my boy!"
Ned responded with a wave and a shouted cry:
"Thank you, sir."
The next instant he waved his hand in token that he was ready to start. The men holding the struggling aeroplane released it, and it shot forward, taking the air within a few feet of the starting point. It rocketed skyward in a trail of blue smoke, leaving behind a reek of gasolene and burning lubricating oil.
Ned directed his course as high as possible, for he wished thoroughly to inspect the surroundings before he commenced his attempt. It was a bright, clear day, almost windless. As he rose higher, the glorious panorama of the open roadstead spread before his eyes. On its glistening surface lay a dark object, like a slumbering leviathan. Ned knew it in a flash for the anchored Manhattan—his goal.
Already a wireless had gone vibrating through the air announcing his departure, and a dozen glasses were aimed at the sky from the big fighting machine. Ned was watched for as eagerly as if he had been a real aerial enemy.
The lad circled about for a few minutes, making sure that his motor was working perfectly, and then he turned his prow toward the distant warship.
Straight toward her he flew, holding his course as true as a homing pigeon. The wind sang by his ears, and vibrated in the steel wire rigging of his sky-clipper as he raced along. The motor's drone behind him was as steady as a heart beat.