Round the World in Seven Days | Page 6

"Ah! On peut le faire, quand même. Courage, mon ami!" and hastened to rejoin his employer.
"What distance, mister," he said, "from here to there--to the cannibals?"
"Thirteen thousand miles, I suppose, more or less."
"Ah!" the Frenchman's face fell. "Thirteen thousand!" he repeated, then was silent for a while, touching his brow as if making some abstruse calculation. Smith turned away.
"Ah! Qu'importe?" cried Rodier, after a few moments. "On peut le faire!"
He hastened to Smith, drew him aside, and spoke rapidly to him for a few moments. The look of doubt that first came to Smith's face was soon replaced by a look of confidence. He engaged in a hurried colloquy with his man, at the close of which they shook hands heartily and went to the fence to lend a hand there.
In half-an-hour the work was done; the fence was down, and the six men carefully dragged and lifted the aeroplane over the débris, and placed it on the road outside. While Rodier made a rapid examination of it, to see that no damage had been done, Smith got the men to empty into the tank the can of petrol they had brought, paid them for their work, and handed his card to the farmer.
"Send in your bill," he cried. "Ready, Roddy?"
"All right, mister."
They jumped into their seats. Smith called to the men to stand clear, and pulled the lever. At the same moment Rodier switched on the searchlight. The propellers flew round with deafening whirr; the aeroplane shot forward for thirty or forty yards along the road, then rose like a bird into the air.
The men stood with mouths agape as the machine flew over the tree-tops, its light diminishing to a pin-point, its clamour sinking to the quiet hum of a bee, and then fading away altogether. In a minute it had totally disappeared.
"Daze me if ever I seed anything like that afore," said the farmer. "A mile a minute, what?"
"More like two," said the motorman. "I lay she'll be in Portsmouth afore I'm half-a-mile up road. Good-night, farmer, I'm off to the Three Waggoners."
"Bust if I don't go, too. There be summat to wet our whistles on to-night, eh, men?"
CHAPTER II
EASTWARD HO!
Before the farmer reached the hospitable door of the Three Waggoners, Smith had made his descent upon a broad open space in his father's park near Cosham. There stood the large shed in which he housed the aeroplane; adjoining it were a number of workshops. It was quite dark now, and no one was about; but Smith clearly had no intention of putting his machine up for the night. As soon as he came to the ground he hurried off on foot in one direction, Rodier on a bicycle in another, their purposeful movements betokening a course of action arranged during the few minutes' conversation at the farm.
Smith walked rapidly through the park, and, entering the house, found his mother placidly knitting on a settee in the large old-fashioned hall.
"Ah, my dear boy," she said, as he appeared; "how late you are, and how dirty! We have waited dinner for you."
"You shouldn't have done that, mother," he replied cheerfully; "though it's very good of you."
"Well, you see, it's your last night with us for ever so long, and with Tom and your father away--"
"Yes, I'm sorry I'm so late," Smith broke in hastily. "We were caught in a mist. I shan't be ten minutes changing."
He ran up the stairs, and before going to his room put his head in at the door of his sister's.
"You there, Kate? You didn't get my telegram, then? Come to my room in ten minutes, will you? I want to see you particularly before dinner."
With a seaman's quickness he was bathed and dressed within the time he had named.
"Come in," he said, as his sister tapped. "You've got a pretty cool head, Sis; look at this, quickly."
He handed her the evening paper, pointing out the fateful paragraph. Kate went a little pale as she read it; her bosom heaved, but she said nothing.
"It must be kept from Mother," he said. "Get hold of to-morrow's paper, and if the paragraph is there, cut it out or tear off the page."
"But people will write, or call. They are sure to speak of it."
"That's your chance. Intercept 'em. You always read the Mater's letters to her, don't you? Keep the servants' mouths shut. And I want you to write for me to all those people and cry off; pressing business--any excuse you like."
"But you, Charley?"
"I'm off to London, to-night; must see what can be done for the old dad, you know."
"How shall we explain to Mother? She has been looking forward to your spending your last night at home."
"Roddy will come up by and by with an urgent telephone message. The Mater is so used