's white and red--St. Bee's interrupted white,
and so on as far as the eye can reach. Blessed be Sargent, Ahrens, and
the Dubois brothers, who invented the cloud-breakers of the world
whereby we travel in security!

"Are you going to lift for The Shamrock?" asks Captain Hodgson. Cork
Light (green, fixed) enlarges as we rush to it. Captain Purnall nods.
There is heavy traffic hereabouts--the cloud-bank beneath us is streaked
with running fissures of flame where the Atlantic boats are hurrying
Londonward just clear of the fluff. Mail-packets are supposed, under the
Conference rules, to have the five-thousand-foot lanes to themselves,
but the foreigner in a hurry is apt to take liberties with English air.
"No. 162" lifts to a long-drawn wail of the breeze in the fore-flange of
the rudder and we make Valencia (white, green, white) at a safe 7,000
feet, dipping our beam to an incoming Washington packet.

There is no cloud on the Atlantic, and faint streaks of cream round
Dingle Bay show where the driven seas hammer the coast. A big
S. A. T. A. liner (_Societe Anonyme des Transports Aeriens_) is diving
and lifting half a mile below us in search of some break in the solid
west wind. Lower still lies a disabled Dane: she is telling the liner
all about it in International. Our General Communication dial has caught
her talk and begins to eavesdrop. Captain Hodgson makes a motion to shut
it off but checks himself. "Perhaps you'd like to listen," he says.

"'Argol' of St. Thomas," the Dane whimpers. "Report owners three
starboard shaft collar-bearings fused. Can make Flores as we are, but
impossible further. Shall we buy spares at Fayal?"

The liner acknowledges and recommends inverting the bearings. The
"Argol" answers that she has already done so without effect, and begins
to relieve her mind about cheap German enamels for collar-bearings. The
Frenchman assents cordially, cries "_Courage, mon ami_," and switches
off.

Their lights sink under the curve of the ocean.

"That's one of Lundt & Bleamers's boats," says Captain Hodgson. "Serves
'em right for putting German compos in their thrust-blocks. _She_ won't
be in Fayal to-night! By the way, wouldn't you like to look round the
engine-room?"

I have been waiting eagerly for this invitation and I follow Captain
Hodgson from the control-platform, stooping low to avoid the bulge of
the tanks. We know that Fleury's gas can lift anything, as the
world-famous trials of '89 showed