“Impossible!” ejaculated Mr. King, starting back. “Why, it’s Roger Davidson!”
There was no doubt of the fact. In turn Grimshaw, young Brackett and even Hiram confirmed the identification.
“Here’s a new mystery for you,” admitted Mr. King, coming into the cabin an hour later. “The clothes that man wore show little adaptability to airship work. In one of his pockets I found the main stub of a steamship ticket. He never fell from any airship. I can account for his extraordinary appearance upon the scene in one way only.”
“And that?” questioned Mr. Dale.
“Is that he was lost off some ocean steamer. One thing certain—the Dictator never started across the Atlantic with this man in charge.”
For three days Davidson lay insensible most of the time. Meanwhile the Albatross coursed its way without accident or delay. All hands were delighted over the success thus far of their wonderful enterprise. They passed the three-quarters distance mark with every prospect of reaching goal in splendid trim.
It was a cool, cloudy and misty night, and both the professor and airman were on close guard on account of the changed weather conditions. The boys were reading in the cozy cabin. Grimshaw and Mr. Dale had gone to bed, and everything seemed proceeding smoothly in engine and pilot rooms. Finally Hiram looked up from his book.
“We are surely going to make it,” he remarked. “The professor says that it will be a clean shoot ahead for land first thing in the morning.”
“I can hardly realize that there is every chance of reaching the goal and winning the prize,” observed the young aviator.
“Say, what was that?” abruptly interjected young Brackett.