"Rather. Lucky youngster obtained his promotion over the 'Independencia' affair."
Before Dacres could relate the incident Whittinghame entered the navigation room.
"How goes it?" he asked.
"Right as rain," replied Dacres cheerfully.
"Good! Now you take a spell and have some food. I'll stand by the helm and you can sing out the compass-course as you re eating. I'm sorry I didn't apply to the Commander-in-Chief for a navigator to take turns with you. Honestly, flying to a course in these regions is beyond me."
Already—it was twenty minutes past twelve by Greenwich time—the sun was rising—a pale, watery-looking disc. Six thousand feet beneath the airship could be seen the sea dotted with masses of floating ice, dwarfed into insignificance when viewed from above.
"We've struck the drift-ice rather far south, I think," remarked Dacres. "It's rather a bad sign, although, of course, there may be a higher temperature in the corresponding latitude in Baffin Bay."
"Let us hope so, in any case," rejoined the captain. "But isn't Parsons doing well? I don't think our speed has dropped to 190 since we started. I mustn't boast, though."
Hour after hour Whittinghame remained with the navigator. He scorned to sleep when such a luxury was denied his comrade.
On nearing the Greenland coast the "Meteor's" speed was reduced in order that Dacres could go on deck and take an observation. The cold cut him like a knife. His fingers could scarcely feel the vernier-screw of the sextant.