“The going had been pretty good until then. The weather was clear, and the ceiling pretty high. But as soon as it got dark, Lindy and his plane hit some pretty bad weather. It grew mighty cold, and a thick swirling fog came up and swallowed up the plane. This was mighty tough, because if he flew low, he was bound to run into one of the icebergs that were floating in the icy sea. So he climbed up to about 10,000 feet, and stayed there. Flying high was all right, but it added another danger. Ice was forming on the wings of the Spirit of St. Louis, and if it got thick enough, it would break off a wing of the plane, and send the plane and Lindy into the sea. “Lindy could have turned back, but he didn’t. He kept right on, through fog and sleet and rain. His motor never missed. It was a good pal, and no wonder he included it in his feat, and said later that ‘we crossed the Atlantic.’ “When morning came, a whole flock of cables came, too. It seems a whole lot of ships had sighted Lindy’s plane, or somebody’s plane, anywhere from 500 to 100 miles off the coast of Ireland, where he was headed. Nobody knew who to believe, but at 10:00 o’clock came the real news, that he was over a place called Valencia, Ireland. “Lindy wondered where he was, himself. Flying blind as he had, he didn’t know just where he had come out. So he decided to ask the first person he met. Now you can imagine the air roads weren’t full of planes flying to Ireland, and Lindy had to wait until he sighted a fishing schooner. He swooped low and shouted out, ‘Am I headed for Ireland?’ The fishermen were so astounded that they couldn’t answer, so Lindy flew on his course, depending as he had all night, on his compass. Pretty soon he came in sight of land, and knew that it was Ireland.” “Because it was so beautiful,” said Pat. “No, because it was rocky, and his maps indicated that the land would be rocky,” said Bob. “Oh, no doubt he could tell it was Ireland,” insisted Pat. “His mother was Irish, you know, and it needs mighty little Irish blood to make a man long for the ould sod.” “Well, anyway, there he was over Ireland,” put in Bob, pointedly. “And from Ireland, on to England, and from England, on to France. Along the Seine, and then Paris. They were waiting for him at Le Bourget, and sent up flares and rockets, long before he got there. Maybe they weren’t excited when he flew into range! It was about 8:30, that is, French time, but about 5:30 New York time, when Lindy and the Spirit of St. Louis circled around the landing field at Le Bourget and landed. Golly, I wish I’d been there. The first man in the world to fly the Atlantic, landing before my very eyes! He’d gone 3,640 miles, and had made it in 33½ hours. Some going! “Well, he was there. And he got out of the plane. And you all know what he said when he got out. I—” “I am Charles Lindbergh,” said Captain Bill and Pat, not quite in unison.