“You made quite a hit with his nobs,” remarked Billy to Henri when the
party reached the street, and started for the Maritime station.
“Wasn’t he fine, though!” exclaimed Henri.
“You’ll find that he has the say when it comes to moving about in
France these times,” asserted the captain. “You’re a lucky lot, I tell
you.”
“I think we owe you something for all this, captain,” suggested Billy.
“Oh, well,” replied the captain, “that’s all in the family, anyhow.
There’s a certain old gentleman over in the States who never went back
on me--and you are a down-to-date picture of him, Billy.”
Josh had given the engine end of the sea-plane a thorough overhauling,
refilled the tanks, and was ready, he claimed, to sail to the moon.
“Never saw such a hungry place as Calais is now,” he grumbled. “The old
lady running the nearest bakery told me a little while ago that she
never sold so much bread before in all her life, and the ovens couldn’t
half keep up with the demand. I don’t believe, either, that there is a
cupful of milk in the town.”
“You seem to have fallen down as a grub hunter, old man,” jested the
captain. “But there is no use growling,” he added, “the machine lockers
are pretty full yet.”
Indeed, there was no immediate danger of the airmen starving.
Henri was chiefly occupied, during the exchange between the captain and
Josh, in thinking of the new care put upon him in the matter of the
sealed packet, and if it was once, it was twenty times in the hour,
that he clutched at his breast, where the parcel reposed. The carrying
of jewels and gold around his waist he passed as an old experience. It
was merely a habit, now.
But the mystery about the packet appealed to the boy, and imagination
magnified the trust until it weighed about a ton on his mind.
The captain had not yet revealed his program of action, and it was with
great difficulty that Henri restrained his growing impatience at the
delay.
After a hearty attack on the food supply of the sea-plane, the captain,
behind a pipeful of the stoutest tobacco to be found on the continent,
announced that there would be no flying that night. The skipper of a
fishing smack had just brought in the rumor from Dover that several
bombs had been dropped from hostile aëroplanes upon that famous
fortified naval harbor. The skipper had also heard that the damage
inflicted by the bombs was light. The captain, under the circumstances,
could not well afford to take chances with a costly machine that did
not belong to him, by night flight. With such rumors on the wireless
flashing down the coast, there was no telling what might happen to an
aviator who could not show his colors.
From this it may be surmised that the captain had no instructions to
put the boys on the night express from Calais to Paris.
“Say, captain, how long do we have to stay here?”
Henri had set to angling for information.
“Overnight, anyhow,” briefly replied the captain. The truth of the
matter is, he was secretly enjoying this bit of teasing, and, further,
he was himself in doubt until a certain messenger should arrive with a
wired for permit to use the sea-plane out of designated area.
Here the magic in the name of the authority to whom the captain had
appealed that day in Calais was first in evidence. Though all people in
the town were forbidden to ride on bicycles after 9 p. m., this rigid
rule then prevailing was apparently not enforced against a wheelman who
arrived at the Maritime station at 10 o’clock, with a yellow envelope
addressed to Captain Johnson.
The captain read the message, pocketed it, knocked the ashes out of his
pipe, told Josh to set the lights in the floating sea-plane and to take
the first watch, promising relief at 1 o’clock. The friendly skipper
invited them all to spread their blankets on the deck of the smack.
At dawn the sea-plane splashed a start and took to the air.
“We’re off for Havre!”
This from the man at the wheel.
Havre, at the mouth of the Seine, and the sea-port for Paris, next to
Marseilles the most important in France.
Henri now had a fair idea of the route they were to follow.
“It’s simply great of you, captain,” acclaimed Henri.
“I said ‘near, if not quite,’ you remember,” trumpeted the captain, for
the noise of the flying machine would have drowned any softer sound.
“Oh, you Havre!” cried Jimmy, when shipmasts loomed like a forest of
bare poles far below.
With marked precision and care, the captain swung into the port, which
thousands of water-craft entered every year.
The coming of the sea-plane had evidently been heralded by a swifter
agent of the air, the wonderful wireless, for no sooner had the flying
machine found clear space in the basin, than it was rapidly approached
by a small motor-boat, in which were seated three men, the one looking
out from the elevated bow exhibiting an empty coat sleeve and the
glitter of an honor decoration upon his breast.
“Is it Rue Castiglione?” he hailed.
“No; it is Rue de Rivoli,” called the captain.
Only names of noted boulevards in Paris--and evidently used in
agreement to insure recognition.
With the uttering of the passwords, there was no further attempt to
speak in riddles.
“Which of the boys?”
He of the one arm was closely inspecting the sea-plane company.
The captain nodded toward Henri.
“Your hand, young sir,” said he with only one to offer. “I knew your
father before you, and of that I am proud.”
Henri was beginning to believe that a Trouville could not be lost in
France.
“Come into the boat,” urged this new found friend.
“But there are three more to go,” stated Henri.
“Ah, I see, you have attendants?”
“Not that, my dear sir; we are all of one rank, and we move on the same
spring.”
“What you wish is a command,” politely conceded the man in the boat;
“will the four come aboard?”
“It’s all in the deal,” said the captain, in a low tone to Henri. “I’ll
have to quit here, and you boys are to go on. But it’s good luck and
not good-by that I’m saying now. It’s not far to Dover, you know.”
When the motor chugged away, the four boys were in it.