Then, after luncheon, they spent the afternoon studying maps and marking directions by which to steer, by the lines of railway mostly. Night flying, with the lights of towns extinguished, is always a difficult matter, and, as Beryl knew by experience, it is extremely easy to lose one’s way by a single mistake.
By seven o’clock darkness had already fallen; but the barometer, at which both had glanced many times with anxious eyes, showed a slow, steady rise, and with the direction of the wind, combined to create excellent conditions for flying at high altitudes.
“The Hornet” had been wheeled out of its “nest,” and Beryl in her fur-lined aviation kit, her leather cap and goggles, had strapped herself in behind her lover, who, with a flash-lamp, was now busily examining the row of instruments before him. Meanwhile Collins, on the ground, shouted:
“Best of luck to you, sir, and also to Miss Beryl!”
“Thank you, Collins!” cried the girl. “We ought to be back by five.”
“All ready, Collins?” asked Ronnie at last sharply.
The mechanic sprang to the propeller.
“Contact, sir?” he asked.
Ronnie threw over the switch with a click. The mechanic swung the big, four-bladed propeller over, when the engine started with noisy, metallic clatter, increasing until it became a deep roar.
Ronnie was testing his engine. Finding it satisfactory, he quickly throttled down. Collins took the “chocks” from beneath the wheels, and the pilot “taxied” slowly across to the corner of the big field until, gaining speed, he opened up suddenly, when the machine skimmed easily off the ground, over the belt of trees, and away up into the void.