For a moment, standing there in the
gloom of the pilot-house, he eyed the dim, watchful figure at the
wheel. Then he turned, slid the door, and disappeared.
As he walked aft, past the aluminum ladder that led to the upper
galleries, he muttered with dudgeon:
"He rates us two for a nickel, that's plain enough--plain as paint!
Well, all right. I'll stand for it; but there may be others that--"
He left the words unfinished, and went to do the Master's bidding.
Alone, the Master smiled. Wine of victory pulsed in his blood and
brain. Power lay under his hand, that closed with joy upon it. Power
not only over this hardy Legion, but power in perspective over--
"God, if I can do it!" he whispered, and fell silent. His eyes rested
on the instruments before him, their white dials glowing under the
little penthouses of their metal shields. Altitude now showed 2,437
feet, and still rising. Tachometers gave from 2,750 to 2,875 r.p.m.
for the various propellers. Speed had gone above 190 miles per hour.
No sign of man remained, save, very far below through a rift in the
pale, moonlit waft of cloud, a tiny light against a coal-black plain
of sea--the light of a slow, crawling steamer--a light which almost at
once dropped far behind.
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