points to the pillars of light where the cloud-breakers bore through
the cloud-floor. We see nothing of England's outlines: only a white
pavement pierced in all directions by these manholes of variously
coloured fire--Holy Island's white and red--St. Bee's interrupted white,
and so on as far as the eye can reach. Blessed be Sargent, Ahrens,
and the Dubois brothers, who invented the cloud-breakers of the world
whereby we travel in security!

"Are you going to lift for The Shamrock?" asks Captain Hodgson. Cork
Light (green, fixed) enlarges as we rush to it. Captain Purnall
nods. There is heavy traffic hereabouts--the cloud-bank beneath us is
streaked with running fissures of flame where the Atlantic boats are
hurrying Londonward just clear of the fluff. Mail-packets are supposed,
under the Conference rules, to have the five-thousand-foot lanes to
themselves, but the foreigner in a hurry is apt to take liberties with
English air. "No. 162" lifts to a long-drawn wail of the breeze in the
fore-flange of the rudder and we make Valencia (white, green, white) at
a safe 7000 feet, dipping our beam to an incoming Washington packet.

There is no cloud on the Atlantic, and faint streaks of cream round
Dingle Bay show where the driven seas hammer the coast. A big S.A.T.A.
liner (Societe Anonyme des Transports Aeriens) is diving and lifting
half a mile below us in search of some break in the solid west wind.
Lower still lies a disabled Dane she is telling the liner all about it
in International. Our General Communication dial has caught her talk and
begins to eavesdrop. Captain Hodgson makes a motion to shut it off but
checks himself. "Perhaps you'd like to listen," he says.

"Argol of St. Thomas," the Dane whimpers. "Report owners three starboard
shaft collar-bearings fused. Can make Flores as we are, but impossible
further. Shall we buy spares at Fayal?"

The liner acknowledges and recommends inverting the bearings. The Argol
answers that she has already done so without effect, and begins to
relieve her mind about cheap German enamels for collar-bearings. The
Frenchman assents cordially, cries "Courage, mon ami," and switches off.

Then lights sink under the curve of the ocean.

"That's one of Lundt & Bleamers' boats," says Captain Hodgson. "Serves
'em right for putting German compos in their thrust-blocks. She won't
be in Fayal to-night! By the way, wouldn't you like to look round the
engine-room?"

I have been waiting eage