II.

For Ray, the few minutes just prior to the take-off had been a terrific strain. He was satisfied that the Silver Bird would lift her burden, but he knew there was almost no margin. A score of disastrous possibilities existed—a puff of wind at the wrong second, too healthy a pull at the joy-stick, oh, anything might happen.

Thus, when he felt her finally pull herself steadily up, up, up, he wanted to shout with pleasure. He turned a grinning face to his companion and she smiled back reassuringly. They were off!

The buoyancy thus bred endured for perhaps a half hour. And, as can be understood, was followed by something very like depression. For, before them stretched hours upon end, monotonous and empty.

Aside from the unremitting vigilance, the constant watch over a dozen instruments, now and then a slight movement of the hand or foot, there was nothing to be done. If that throbbing motor kept on working properly as it was now, they would touch earth in Warsaw; if not, well—

Underneath, Long Island slipped away; gave place to flat, gray water. The next land they would sight, barring a glimpse of Cape Cod, would be Newfoundland. Then the grim expanse of ocean—the ocean that had claimed so many of their predecessors.

Ray thought that Mrs. Benham must be getting more of a thrill out of the undertaking than he was. The first woman—

Ray expected to handle the controls virtually all the way and had braced himself against the long, sleepless hours. There was plenty of black coffee in the thermos bottle at his hand and the very excitement of the trip would do its part.

During the period of preparation he had taught Mrs. Benham the rudiments of flying and she could take over the controls for brief spaces when he should feel the need of relief. She it was who looked after the radio and several times during the morning hours she had been in communication with land stations as well as two incoming liners. The call of the plane was SBDK.

In the waning afternoon they sighted Harbor Grace, Newfoundland, and Mrs. Benham picked up a greeting from the wireless station there. She replied:

Thanks for good wishes. All well and ship behaving perfectly. SBDK.

Out over the sea roared the Silver Bird, out into the unknown that had swallowed without trace flyers quite as intrepid and skillful as the two whose faces were now set to the east.

Ray planned to make straight for the Irish coast, a matter of seventeen or eighteen hundred miles. They would, if nothing went awry, attain the British Isles on the morning of the next day. That would give them daylight to win halfway across the European continent before night should again overtake them.

The coming of darkness found them well out and doing better than ninety miles an hour under clear, star-shot skies. As the load of fuel lightened, they would make even faster time.

Comfortable thought, that. Ray exulted. They would make it! The weather dope had been right.

Marjorie Benham, listening in constantly, scribbled on a paper and shoved it over to him:

The Majestic is calling. They picked up our last message. I’ll shoot them an all’s well if you will give me our position.

Ray did so and the message was sent. And the march of the weary hours went on.

A fresh sense of unreality enveloped Ray Folsom. Here they were, over a winter sea, under a winter sky—cleaving the velvet of the night at one hundred miles an hour.

They were warm, thanks to the efficient exhaust heater; they were otherwise comfortable albeit a little cramped. There were food and drink at hand. It was easy—so absurdly easy!

He thought of the woeful prophecies with which the papers had teemed for a fortnight; grinned over the stupidity of it all. Why, there was nothing to it except a fairly good motor performance!

And if they were successful, there would be no end of hullabaloo over what did not amount—so far as actual labor was concerned—to the grinding of a set of valves!

It was remarkable, Ray thought. A job so utterly easy that it was hard to remain awake, yet hero stuff awaited at the journey’s end. For that he was glad on Marjorie Benham’s account. She was a game sport.

He flooded the cabin with light and turned to look at her. She smiled sleepily and he motioned her to take a nap. But she shook her head and her lips formed: “I can’t.”

Ray switched off the light and peered once more through the windows of his little domain. Peaceful, so amazingly peaceful. The motor, almost, was singing a lullaby.