he speeds away, and few thoughts he has now for the changing
panorama of country, cloud, and colour. Ever present in his mind are the
three great 'cross-country queries. "Am I on my right course? Can I see
a good landing-ground within gliding distance?" And "How is the Engine
running?"

Keenly both he and the Observer compare their maps with the country
below. The roads, khaki-coloured ribbons, are easily seen but are not
of much use, for there are so many of them and they all look alike from
such an altitude.

Now where can that lake be which the map shows so plainly? He feels that
surely he should see it by now, and has an uncomfortable feeling that
he is flying too far West. What pilot is there indeed who has not many
times experienced such unpleasant sensation? Few things in the air can
create greater anxiety. Wisely, however, he sticks to his compass
course, and the next minute he is rewarded by a sight of the lake,
though indeed he now sees that the direction of his travel will not take
him over it, as should be the case if he were flying over the shortest
route to his destination. He must have slightly miscalculated the
velocity or direction of the side-wind.

"About ten degrees off," he mutters, and, using the Rudder, corrects his
course accordingly.

Now he feels happier and that he is well on his way. The gusts, too,
have ceased to trouble him as, at this altitude, they are not nearly so
bad as they were near the ground, the broken surface of which does much
to produce them; and sometimes for miles he makes but a movement or two
of the controls.

The clouds just above race by with dizzy and uniform speed; the country
below slowly unrolls, and the steady drone of the Engine is almost
hypnotic in effect. "Sleep, sleep, sleep," it insidiously suggests.
"Listen to me and watch the clouds; there's nothing else to do. Dream,
dream, dream of speeding through space for ever, and ever, and ever; and
rest, rest, rest to the sound of my rhythmical hum. Droning on and on,
nothing whatever matters. All things now are merged into speed through
space and a sleepy monotonous d-d-r-r-o-o-n-n-e------." But the Pilot
pulls himself together with a start and peers far ahead in search of the
next landmark. This time it is a little country town, red-roofed his map
tells him, and roughly of cruciform shape; and, sure enough, there in
the right direction are the broken outlines of a few red roofs peeping
out from between the tre