ing contact with the ground after
a flight, I had been told was the most difficult of all. It is not
surprising that this should be so. Our speed through the air was, at
the moment, about 50 miles an hour; and to bring a machine to the
ground when it is moving so fast, without a violent shock or jar, is a
manoeuvre needing considerable judgment. But, remembering that the
main thing was to handle the control lever gently, I managed to get
back again to the aerodrome without accident; and after this we turned
the machine round again and made another flight.

The fog had cleared by now, and we were surprised to see a number of
people running across the ground towards us. First there came the
tardy mechanics; and with them were a number of reporters and
photographers representing the Paris newspapers. These latter
had--though I only found this out afterwards--been brought by the
mechanics in the expectation of being able to record, with their
notebooks and cameras, some catastrophe in which we were expected to
play the leading parts. Knowing the powerful type of monoplane I had
acquired, a machine not suited for a novice, the mechanics had felt
sure some disaster would overtake me. But, as it happened, their
anticipations were not fulfilled. The journalists and photographers
did not, however, have a fruitless journey. Though there was nothing
gruesome to chronicle, they found ample material, when they learned of
them, in the early morning adventures of myself and my friend with
this 60 h.p. monoplane. Next day, in fact, our exploits were given
prominence in the newspapers, and I received a number of
congratulatory telegrams; not forgetting one of a slightly different
character which came from M. Bleriot. He was flying at the time in
Vienna, and he warned me of the dangers of such boldness as I had
displayed--having regard to the speed and power of my machine--and
pleaded with me for a greater caution.

CHAPTER IV

THE CONTROLLING OF LATEST-TYPE CRAFT

People are puzzled, often, when they try to explain to themselves how
it is that an aeroplane, which is so much heavier than air, manages to
leave the ground and to soar in flight. When balloons or airships
ascend, it is realised of course that the gas, imprisoned within their
envelopes, draws them upward. But the aeroplane--weighing with pilot,
passenger, and fuel perhaps several thousand pounds--rises without the
aid of a gas-bag and with nothing to sustain it b