The Albatross rested its floats lightly upon the water and skimmed it slowly at an even height, like the royal bird after which it was named.
The handling of the yawl was of a piece with the operation of all the perfect utilities of the airship. The three boys took the oars and the airman acted as pilot.
Just as they got near to the raft they saw the man standing upright upon it, sever the cable holding it to the burning ship. The heat from the flames had evidently become too intense for him to bear. Then he posed in an attitude of suspense and eagerness, a wiry, keen-eyed little man. He had a long, oval metal box strapped across his shoulder, and was dripping wet.
“Good for you!” he hailed, as the airman grappled the raft with a boathook.
“Ship caught fire, did it?” remarked Mr. King.
“No, I set it.”
The yawl crew stared almost unbelievingly at the man as he made this statement, but he went on calmly:
“I had to. She’s water logged, and bound to sink the first capful of breeze that hits her.”
“Where are the passengers and crew?” asked the airman.
“Abandoned her early this morning. I was down in the cabin getting this”—and the speaker tapped the tin box as though it contained something precious. “They missed me, and were away in the boat before I knew it.”