“Now for a landing, Ned!” he called to his chum. “Mark the time!”
“Mark it is!” answered Ned, who sat with his watch in one hand and a pencil in the other, ready to make the record on the official slip of paper he held on his knee. “It’s over eighteen hours, though, Tom,” he said regretfully.
“I’m afraid it is, Ned. But it can’t be helped. Better luck next time!”
“Hope so,” was the response.
A moment later, amid the wild and enthusiastic cheers of the crowd, Tom brought the Osprey to earth, the first time she had touched it since leaving Denver. The car landed with a gentle thud, rolled along a little way and then came to a stop while the crowd of reporters, cameramen, and general curiosity seekers rushed forward in an overwhelming wave. It was a reproduction of the same scenes that had taken place in Chicago and Denver, only this was more intensified, for it marked the end of the journey.
But before Tom would reply to the score of questions hurled at him by the reporters he called to Ned:
“What time do you make it?”
The manager figured rapidly.
“Eighteen hours and sixteen minutes from Long Island to San Francisco,” he answered.
“Not so bad,” murmured Tom. “But we’re going to do better than that the next time.”