Meanwhile, Sir Hardy Staplers came on board to bid the departing aircraft God-speed, while, acting upon an "immediate demand note," suits of Arctic clothing were sent aboard from the clothing department of Royal Clarence Yard.
By twenty minutes past four all preparations were complete, and for the first time in her brief yet exciting career the "Meteor" hoisted the Blue Ensign; an Admiralty warrant having been hurriedly granted for that purpose.
Amid the deafening cheers of the thousands of spectators the "Meteor" rose majestically to a height of four hundred feet, then gathering way, darted forward in a northerly direction towards the desolate regions of the Far North.
Whittinghame, knowing that every moment was precious, gave orders for every possible knot to be screwed out of the motors, and nobly the engineers responded to the call. Within ten minutes of the start the speed indicators hovered around the two hundred miles an hour mark.
"Seventeen hours ought to do it," remarked the doctor.
"Hardly," corrected Whittinghame. "In the rarefied air we shall have to slow down a trifle. There will be less resistance to the vessel and correspondingly less resistance to the propeller blades. With luck we ought to reckon on twenty hours."
The navigation of the "Meteor" was entirely in Dacres' hands. There could be no rest for him until the voyage ended, for he alone of all on board could shape a course in these high latitudes, when the compass is useless to any but men skilled in the art of applying complicated magnetic variation adjustments.
Already the needle was pointing thirty degrees west of north, while hourly the angle was increasing.
Just before eleven Dacres pointed to the setting sun.
"That's the last sunset we'll see for some days, I fancy, doctor," he remarked. "We are nearing the Arctic Circle."