EXTRACTS FROM THE LOG OF THE _Ocean Flyer_
“June 22, 2.1´ P. M. Left Acton (London). Fair S. W. wind. Thermometer
88°. Mr. Hope at wheel. Magnetic course, N. 55° 30´ W. (N. W. 7/8 W.)
Altitude 800 ft. Speed 176 miles per hour.
“June 22, 6.47´ 12´´ P. M. Finished fourth leg W. bound. Heavy S. W.
wind. Thermometer 68°. Mr. Napier at wheel. Magnetic course, N. 62° W.
(N. W. by W. 1/2 W.) Altitude 2,800 ft. Speed, 165 miles per hour. East
bound speed average of three miles per hour dropped to 2.75 miles.
Distance covered, 788 miles. Mr. Napier and Mr. Hope in consultation
over loss due to increasing S. W. wind. At 4 P. M., Mr. Ballard was too
ill to work. Mr. Clarke busy writing. Mr. Bowman working under
difficulties owing to the motion of the ship. Mr. Stewart served dinner
at 5.30´ P. M. Mr. Ballard did not appear. Mr. Bowman, the photographer,
has been forward many times. Interesting descriptions by him of the
royal pageant.
“June 22, 7.15´ P. M. At present rate of speed New York will be reached
in 19 hours and 30 minutes. Deducting time gained, in 14-1/2 hours or at
4.30´ A. M., June 23. Wind strong and steady S. W. Thermometer falling,
65°. Present speed, 2.72 miles per minute or 163 miles per hour. Mr.
Napier and Mr. Hope have gone over all calculations.
“June 22, 7.25´ P. M. Mr. Ballard has asked that Mr. Stewart be assigned
to take dictation on his newspaper work. Seems very ill. Mr. Clarke
complains of the cold and has borrowed a sweater.
“June 22, 7.30´ P. M. Captain Napier has decided to rise above wind
which continues strong. Passengers not notified.
“June 22, 9.48´ P. M. Finished seventh leg W. bound. Got above wind at
7.40´ P. M., rising to 4,000 feet; light breeze on that level S. by E.
Speed 180 miles per hour. Mr. Hope at wheel. Magnetic course N. 68 W.
(W. N. W.) Altitude 6,000 feet. Five hundred and forty miles have been
covered since 6.48´.24´´ total, west bound, 1,328 miles. Miles to New
York, 1,890.1. Difficulty calculating speed owing to quick rise and
special pressure in anemometer. Mr. Napier and Mr. Hope in frequent
consultation. Mr. Russell is preparing newspaper copy at his engine
post. Mr. Stewart yet engaged with Mr. Ballard.”
These brief and colorless notes by Observer Osborne give little
indication of what was occurring on the _Flyer_. When the last
calculation was made just before ten o’clock it was plain, unless a
change came at once that the great experiment was to be, in part at
least, a failure. With only one thousand three hundred and twenty-eight
miles covered in seven hours and forty-eight minutes the problem before
the aviators was hard enough.
Although by taking the 6,000 foot level at seven forty o’clock they had
escaped the stiff southwest breeze and had since averaged three miles a
minute they were now so far behind their schedule that one hundred and
eighty miles an hour would not save them from defeat. In addition, the
higher flight was telling on all. Mr. Clarke had borrowed an overcoat
and was working in gloves. Mr. Ballard was buried under blankets.
“We’ve got eighteen hundred and ninety miles before us,” explained
Captain Ned. “If we can’t beat a three mile a minute gait for that
distance, it’ll be nearly half past three o’clock in the morning when we
land. That makes it impossible to get anything—stories or pictures—in
the regular editions. And the biggest card of our assignment is to get
these things in the regular editions. An ‘extra’ will take the edge off
success.”
“Well,” said Alan determinedly, “you know we always have a last resort.
It means compressed air and polar temperature. But, there’s the high
altitude!”
“A shade under three miles and a half a minute will do it,” Ned
announced.
“That’s over two hundred miles an hour,” suggested Roy.
“It’s three and forty-two hundredths miles a minute,” added Ned, “or two
hundred and five and two-tenths miles an hour. We’ll try it!”
“Can you watch the compressed air tubes and gauges and keep up your
other work?” asked Alan, turning to Roy.
“We’ll have to do that,” broke in Ned. “Let Roy stick to his work. He’s
got to watch the aerometer readings and the wind pressure chart. We’ll
all know when the _air_ is wrong, but his speed figures must be
watched.”
“Are you goin’ to tell our passengers?” asked Roy.
“We’ll have Buck watch their rooms and open the foul air exhausts when
it’s necessary,” suggested Ned. “Bob can watch the lower compartments—”
“How about the temperature? If we get down below freezing, they’ll know
that something is wrong,” Alan exclaimed.
“We’ll cross that bridge when we reach it,” argued Ned.
This decided, Ned hastened below to advise Bob of the desperate chance
to be taken. Together the two boys overhauled the heavy clothing in the
store room and got it into the pilot house.
“I hope it won’t get too cold,” Bob said in the midst of their efforts.
“I’m workin’ on my story of the trip across and back.” He showed Ned a
bunch of neat copy. “I’m keepin’ it down but it’s a pretty big story.”
When Buck was summoned from Mr. Ballard’s stateroom, he received the
notification of what was to be done, with no excitement. It was apparent
that his present work almost wholly engrossed his thoughts.
“How’s your patient?” asked Alan laughing.
“Mr. Ballard? Oh, he’s all right. I mean he’s all wrong. That is, he’s
still sick. He’s been asleep.”
“Asleep?” exclaimed Ned. “And what have you been doin’ meanwhile?
Holdin’ his hands?”
“Why, I’m writin’ his story.”
“While he’s asleep?”
“Sure! Why not? Someone has to do it. But—ssh! Don’t say a word to that
fellow Clarke!”
“How are you writin’ if he’s asleep?” persisted Ned curiously.
“Oh, he told me a lot himself and then there’s the papers they brought
aboard—”
“And you’re makin’ a story out of that? When you weren’t near the
place!”
“Mr. Bowman was!” went on Buck chafing his stiffened fingers. “And I
think he saw more than Mr. Ballard did. I’m gettin’ along all right.”
“Well,” exclaimed Alan, “be sure that our guests do. We’re goin’ up
considerable and if you get too busy ‘assisting’ Mr. Ballard you may
kill ’em all. Watch your exhausts in the three rooms. Don’t suffocate
yourself and them—”
“What time is it?” broke in Buck, his mind back on his work already.
“Ten o’clock!”
“Oh, that’s all right. I’ll be through by one or half past—maybe.”
“And at twelve o’clock,” said Ned, “remember that coffee and food is
due.”
With a last examination of all ports and doors, at ten o’clock, Ned at
the barometer and barograph and Roy at the aerometer and statoscope,
Alan headed the _Flyer_ still further skyward. At twelve o’clock,
midnight, the following entry appeared in the _Flyer_ log:
“June 22, 12 midnight. Have made 439 miles since 9, 48´ 24´´. Time
between observations 2, 11´ 36´´ or 3.33 miles a minute. Between 3.40
and 3.50 miles a minute expected on 1,451.1 miles yet to be covered. All
suffering from cold. Thermometer 6° above zero. Altitude 24,612 feet. No
trouble with fuel or oil. Lubricator heaters turned on at 10.30 o’clock.
Air funnel working well but must be watched closely. On instructions
from Captain Napier New York time now substituted for London time. New
York time of this entry is 7 P. M.”
For seven long hours after this entry was made in the log of the _Ocean
Flyer_, the giant airship sped like a shooting star toward the distant
west. Above the clouds and above the unseen sea, it held its course with
never a lessening beat of its ceaseless engines. To most of those within
the spectre shape, time and distance had now lost their meaning. Each
port and window was heavy with frost and each occupant was shivering
from the intense cold. By ten o’clock few sounds were heard except the
heavy purr of the engine and the vibrant notes of the great wings as
they cracked in the wintry air. Talk had ceased except in the few low
words that passed at intervals between the man at the wheel and Roy at
the observer’s table—the limbs of the latter stiff under the furs he
wore but his brain active under the pressure of the work that meant so
much to all.
Mr. Ballard was yet silent beneath extra clothing and blankets. In the
next room the photographer shivered beneath the doubled bed covers. Buck
and Mr. Clarke sat with Bob in the engine room, cold but philosophical,
making talk of the journey and what it meant. After thirteen hours of
work, the coronation story and Mr. Bowman’s pictures were ready for the
_Herald_. Copy and pictures, carefully marked and sealed, were enclosed
in wrappings. Four hours more and the strain would be at an end—or
worse.
A stupor had fallen on the physical activity of Ned, Alan and Bob. But
their mental alertness had not dulled. With no more words than were
necessary, the three young men guided the wonderful craft onward as they
steeled themselves against the dread of failure and the numbing cold.
Just after ten o’clock, New York time, Buck served hot tea to the silent
ones in the pilot room.
“We’re almost over the ocean, aren’t we?” he asked, chattering.
“I think we were over Newfoundland about nine thirty o’clock,” answered
Ned in a tired voice. “What’s the time, now?” he asked abruptly of Alan
who was then at the wheel.
“Ten six,” was the brief answer.
“And the course?” he added, facing Roy.
“West, one-half south,” answered Roy without spirit. It was the third
time he had announced this in the last half hour. By his figures the
_Flyer_ was over Fogo Island at 9:36 P. M.
“What d’ you know about that?” yelled Buck climbing awkwardly down the
ladder. “We’re over America again—a half hour ago.”
“How far is it now?” asked Mr. Clarke, slowly as if the words were an
effort.
“Only eleven hundred miles,” answered Bob.
“Eleven hundred—?” sighed the London reporter. Then he became silent and
his head sank between his numb, gloved hands.
At eleven o’clock Buck and Bob prepared food—soup and coffee. Mr.
Ballard and the photographer were the only ones who ate nothing. The
_Flyer_ was now at an altitude of 31,000 feet and Captain Napier took
his coffee standing with his eyes on the compressed air gauge. A few
pounds too much pressure and all felt the extra supply by the pains in
their chests and heads. The thermometer had now dropped to two degrees
above zero.
When the chronometer showed twelve thirty o’clock, Roy prepared to make
a new calculation. He climbed down the ladder for a cup of tea to
quicken his brain. Bob alone was awake. But he sat gazing stolidly at
the engine and did not even notice Roy’s entrance. The London reporter
and Buck sat crouched together and sound asleep. With a supply of tea
for Alan and Ned, Roy returned to his desk. Wearily getting the time
again—and the thirty-four hours in which he had been doing this
constantly, seemed a week—he read his aerometer, calculated the wind
pressure charts and then, to his last figures, added the advance.
“Captain,” he said at last, “we’re only a little over three hundred
miles from New York.”
For a moment this seemed to have no special significance. Then Ned
aroused himself.
“It’s only two hundred and five miles from New York to Ipswich. Are we
goin’ to make it?”
“It’s twelve thirty o’clock now,” was Roy’s answer. “Our calculated
position is three hundred and nine miles out.”
“And what can we do that in?”
Rousing himself again, Roy figured a few moments.
“One hour, thirty-four minutes and forty-eight seconds,” he reported.
“That’s nearly five minutes after two, isn’t it? Well, it’s close
enough.”
“Hadn’t we better come down?” asked Alan as he tried to warm his left
hand under his arm. Ned looked at the barograph. It marked 29,640 feet.
“To one thousand feet,” he responded.
“Watch your gauge and pressure,” suggested Alan and, as he depressed the
_Flyer’s_ bow, Ned recharged the ship with compressed, polar air.
Gradually the airship sped toward the earth. In two minutes the crisply
glittering stars winked out and the _Flyer_ was in an opaque mist. In
two minutes more a patter on the frost covered windows alarmed the boys.
Then Roy arose and unlocked the port door. A gust of rain swept into the
room. At the same moment the cabin lights paled and then a fog filled
the compartment. The boys lost sight of each other and of the
instruments near them.
“We’re in a fog bank!” exclaimed Roy.
“It’s our own,” shouted Ned. “We’re near the ground and it’s June. The
car was filled with zero atmosphere. It’s condensing.”
“Everything’s covered with water,” added Alan.
Ned groped about and threw open all ports and doors. The fog cleared
almost as quickly as it came. In four minutes the thermometer jumped
from 2° above zero to 65°. As the comparatively hot wave rolled into the
car Alan dropped lower, looking for lights or landmarks. The quick drop
again interfered with Roy’s figures but at 12.45 o’clock Alan relieved
all doubt.
“Two fixed white lights,” he shouted. “Looks like Thatcher’s Island
lighthouse. Hold the wheel while I peel these togs.”
At the same moment the door of the adjoining state room opened and Mr.
Arthur Ballard, encased in sweaters and a fur coat, exclaimed:
“The roof is leakin’. I’m soaked through.” The thermometer was now 78°.
“Where are we?”
“Ipswich, Massachusetts,” exclaimed Roy. “Change cars for Boston.”
Tossing his polar garments to the floor Roy made this entry in his log:
“June 23; 12, 59´ 11´´ A. M. Thatcher’s Island light abeam to starboard.
Between 12.30 and 12.40 A. M. descended from 29,640 feet altitude to 700
feet. Temperature rose from 2° above zero to 78°. Rain falling and
weather sultry. Ipswich, Mass., lights ahead. Course for New York,
Battery, S. 79° 30´ E. (E. by S.) Last leg 210 miles. Low level speed
180 miles an hour. Probable time of end of journey 1, 10´ plus 12, 59´
11´´ or 2, 9´ 11´´ A. M. Mr. Napier at wheel again.”
With a word to Ned and a nod in reply, Alan hastened below. Those in the
engine room were yet swathed in extra clothing and calling for
explanations. Seizing Bob, Alan announced the situation—to the relief of
all—and then instructed Russell to attempt to get in touch by wireless
with the _Herald_. The store room was soon aglow from the flashes of the
snapping condenser. In fifteen minutes Bob’s call was answered. Then,
with short interruptions, this message was forwarded:
“_Ocean Flyer_ west of Ipswich one o’clock on time all well Ballard
Clarke Russell stories ready pictures O K best time two hundred five
two-tenths miles hour highest altitude thirty-one thousand feet coldest
weather two degrees above zero reach office few minutes after two
congratulations _Herald_ enterprise answer.”
Within a few minutes came this message in reply:
“Congratulations unparalleled success presses waiting, estimate exact
time arrival if possible. _Herald_.”
“Two ten,” flashed the answer.
Then, a little later, followed this wireless to the _Herald_ operator:
“Forward Chicago Mary Hope Beverly Hills. In America again safe and
well. Alan and Ned.”
But the wireless figures were not exactly correct. Picking out lights,
the detour to find South Norwalk, a slow-down in the Sound as the
bridges were approached and then the rise as the _Flyer_ headed over the
sleeping metropolis to trace its way north by the winking lights of
Broadway, threw Roy out in his calculations. When the green lights
marking the signal diamond on the _Herald_ roof flashed out no one on
board noted the hour. Checking and sinking between the buildings on
either side, the _Flyer_ floated over _Herald_ square. As a bag dropped
on the _Herald_ roof with a crash the manager of that newspaper glanced
at his watch. It was twelve minutes after two o’clock.
At the moment Ned whirled the wing wheel for a new lift a loud voiced
boy dashed from the rear of the _Herald building_.
“Here y’ar; extry papia; all ’bout big airplane crossin’ ’Lantic ocean;
papia, double extry _Hurld_!”
On the first page of the damp sheets under the boy’s arm—and the first
loaded wagon of extras was now rattling down Broadway—was the story Buck
and Bob had written three days before. In display type above this was
printed this bulletin:
“The first aeroplane to cross the Atlantic Ocean reached the _Herald_
office at ten minutes after two o’clock this morning. It left London at
one minute after two o’clock yesterday afternoon. Distance traveled
3,218.1 miles. Time, twelve hours and eight minutes. Highest speed,
205.2 miles an hour. Greatest altitude, 31,000 feet. Lowest temperature,
2° above zero. The monster triple-planed _Ocean Flyer_, with a daring
crew of five men, has conquered the air at last. Under the auspices of
the _Herald_ and _Telegram_, Captain Ned Napier and his associate Alan
Hope, left New York Wednesday, June 21, at one o’clock, twenty-one
minutes and twenty-two seconds in the afternoon. Their monster aeroplane
successfully crossed the Atlantic—traversing Massachusetts, the Gulf of
Maine, Nova Scotia, Newfoundland, 1,709 miles of trackless water,
Ireland, the Irish Sea—and delivered the plates of the _Telegram’s_
special coronation edition safely to the _Herald_ representatives in
Hyde Park, London, at twenty-five minutes after one o’clock the next
day. The story of the preparations for these marvelous feats, with a
full description of the _Ocean Flyer_, its unique ideas and a detailed
account of its now celebrated crew, appears below.”
Then followed a full page of the matter that Bob and Buck had written
and a graphic story, written by night city editor Latimer, of how the
_Herald_ discovered the _Ocean Flyer_, of the “beat” that was not
printed and a full account of Ned Napier and Alan Hope, the “Airship
Boys.”
When the _Ocean Flyer_ reached the yards of the aeroplane factory in
Newark fifteen minutes later and came to a final stop, there was no more
demonstration than might have followed a half hour’s flight out over the
marshes. President Atkinson was awaiting his friends. As he took Ned’s
hand he handed him a telephone message just received. It read:
“Heartiest congratulations to Captain Ned Napier and his associates on
accomplishing the greatest feat of the age; an airship journey from
London to New York in twelve hours. Consider contract carried out.
Editor _Herald_.”
------------------------------------------------------------------------
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This is the sixth story in the AIRSHIP BOYS Series. The seventh is
entitled THE AIRSHIP BOYS AS DETECTIVES Or, Secret Service in
Cloudland. This worthy successor of the OCEAN FLYER deals with the
fascinating task of guarding both frontiers of the United States,
bringing into play the most modern and effective means—the airship.
Accurate information—exciting situations—rapid action—thrilling
adventures—make this story one every boy will want to read.
For other titles in this Series see Page 2.
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Transcriber’s Notes:
Italicized phrases are presented by surrounding the text with
_underscores_. Boldface phrases are presented by surrounding the
text with equal signs. Small capitals have been rendered in full
capitals.
Punctuation has been standardized. Minor spelling and typographic
errors have been corrected silently except as noted below.
Hyphenated words have been retained as they appear in the original
text, except as noted below.
The inconsistent spelling of "employe" (versus "employee") has been
left as is.
The inconsistent capitalization of "Fleet street" versus "Fleet
Street" has been left as is.
The inconsistent usage of "air craft" versus "aircraft" has been
left as is.
In several places throughout the book, inconsistent usage of the
degree symbol (°) has been left as is.
On page 31, "shiplike" changed to "ship-like" to be consistent with
other usage in the book.
On page 31, "inclosed" changed to "enclosed" to be consistent with
other usage in the book.
On page 67, "day-time" changed to "daytime" to be consistent with
other usage in the book and with contemporary usage of the time
period.
On page 129, "trans-atlantic" changed to "transatlantic" to be
consistent with other usage in the book and with contemporary usage
of the time period.
On page 186, "sustention" changed to "suspension" in "...the spring
hooks released the sustention cable...". While "sustention" was used
in that time period (and is still), it has a somewhat different
meaning that what is implied in the sentence.
On page 201, "skysickness" changed to "sky sickness" to be
consistent with other usage in the book.
On page 268, "Fogo Island and one fifty-one A. M." has been left as
is, although the stated time calculation should yield "one
fifty-nine A. M.".
On page 269, the chapter number has been changed from "IX" to "XIX".
End of Project Gutenberg's The Airship Boys' Ocean Flyer, by H. L. Sayler