Two experiences which were privileges, too, of the busy weeks, stand out oddly in my memory. Shamelessly I confess my admiration for motorcycle policemen. Though they have spoken harshly to me on occasion they are so good to look at, I’ve quite forgiven—most of them. Gallant figures cycle cops, weaving through traffic, provoking drivers to follow suit—and get a ticket. In the autocratic days of our post-flight glory we were whirled about with motorcycle escort, unmindful of traffic lights and speed ordinances. Of an afternoon I motored to New York’s new Medical Center, with one of the escorts driving a side-car. On the way back to the Biltmore I transferred from the limousine to that side-car.... There wasn’t a speedometer so I don’t know exactly, but I suspect that fifty m.p.h. doesn’t tell the story. That was one of the cherished experiences. The second found me in a locomotive cab of the Pennsylvania Railroad, bedecked in overalls, goggles and cap. The ride from Pittsburgh to Altoona, round the Horseshoe Bend, was not so fast as flying, about as noisy, and much dirtier. Also far more hot. If and when my feminine readers take up locomotive travel, let them wear heavily soled shoes. Mine were fairly thin—and the fire box heated the floor below where I sat when I couldn’t stand and stood when I couldn’t sit. Even the photographs, incidental to these experiences, did not detract from my enjoyment. However, some of them clipped subsequently from newspapers, arrived thoughtfully labelled _bologna_. There were many editorials in both England and America. Some appraised the technical accomplishments of the flight generously. But more interesting than the bouquets were the brickbats, especially when shied directly at me—as they often were. As to the part I personally played in the flight I have tried to be entirely frank always. The credit belongs to the boys, to the ship and to its backer. I was a passenger. The fact that I happen to be a small-ship pilot, reasonably experienced in the air, didn’t affect the situation other than having contributed to my selection. Said the “New York World”: Using Newfoundland and Ireland, and possibly the Azores, as fuel stops, commercial airplaning between the Old World and the New appears likely to become feasible within the not very distant future. To have shared with her skilled companions in bringing that development a step nearer is higher honor for Miss Earhart than the sporting record of the first air crossing accomplished by a woman. Not only “honor,” but satisfaction—the joy of a share, however small, in a great adventure. When we were in London a clipping from “The Church Times” came to me. The envelope was addressed in the shaky handwriting of an elderly person. There was no letter and no signature, but certain sentences in the article were underlined. Here is that clipping as it greeted me, the underlined sentences printed in italics: _Read Mark Learn_