By now we were besieging Lieutenant Clements, the meteorological officer, for weather reports. Besides his own work he had now undertaken the duties of Major Partridge, official starter for the Royal Aëro Club of London. As such he had to place the club's official seal on the Vickers-Vimy. This he did without any superfluous ceremony, his seal insuring that we should not cheat by flying from Newfoundland in one aëroplane and landing on Ireland in another. At that period the weather reports, such as they were, indicated fairly favorable conditions for the flight, and we prepared to make the attempt immediately. At no time were the reports complete, however, owing to the delays in transmission; although Clements made the very best of the meager data at his disposal. We saw the Handley-Page carrying out its initial flights; but we hoped to leave on Friday, June the thirteenth, and thus show it the way across the Atlantic. We worked at high speed on several last-minute jobs. The compasses were swung, the wireless apparatus repaired, more elastic shock-absorbers were wrapped round the axles, the navigating instruments were taken on board, with food and emergency supplies. But with all the hurry and bustle we found that everything could not be ready by Friday the thirteenth, and that a postponement until 4 A. M. on the Saturday was essential. [Illustration: FEATHERING THE WINGS--SETTING UP THE FLIER AT ST. JOHN'S, N. F.] [Illustration: THE LAST TOUCHES--ADJUSTING THE BRACING WIRES] By Friday evening the last coat of dope was dry, and nothing had been overlooked. The only articles missing were some life-saving suits, which we were expecting from the United States. Long afterwards we discovered that these had been delivered to the Bank of Montreal, where the officials, believing that the case contained typewriters, stored it in their cellars. Alcock and I went to bed at 7 P. M. on Friday while the mechanics remained all night with the machine, completing the filling of the tanks and moving it to the position chosen for the start. We were called before dawn, and joined them on the aërodrome at 3:30 A. M. on June the fourteenth. CHAPTER III THE START A large black cat, its tail held high in a comical curve, sauntered by the transatlantic machine as we stood by it, early in the morning; and such a cheerful omen made me more than ever anxious to start. Two other black cats--more intimate if less alive--waited in the Vickers-Vimy. They were Lucky Jim and Twinkletoe, our mascots, destined to be the first air passengers across the Atlantic. Lucky Jim wore an enormous head, an untidy ribbon and a hopeful expression; whereas Twinkletoe was daintily diminutive, and, from the tip of her upright tail to the tip of her stuffed nose, expressed surprise and anxiety. Other gifts that we carried as evidence of our friends' best wishes were bunches of white heather.