“Just a word. Like to _know_ the men, you know. Gives ’em a personal interest in their job, I always think.” The engineer called up the new stoker, a tall young fellow in the flannel shirt open at the neck, the loose reach-me-down, and the black-lead coated trousers affected by his kind. His face and arms were begrimed with black grease, and his mouth received an extra smudge as he drew the back of his hand across it, apparently in sheepish confusion. “You’re a new man, M’Cracken,” said the merchant pleasantly. “Hope you’ll get on well. Mr. Mumford won’t _over-work_ you, I can answer for that. Have you been long at this job?” “No that lang, sir; just a wee while,” the stoker replied in a somewhat husky voice. “Exactly. Ah! well! Good morning.” “Good mornin’, sir.” And Mr. Greatorex went on deck, satisfied that he had established excellent relations with the newest hand. The first part of the voyage was rather stormy. The yacht, by no means a large vessel, shipped one or two fairly heavy seas, to the no small alarm of Tom, who was anxious lest the crates containing his machine should be washed overboard or otherwise injured. But halfway through the Bay the weather moderated, and by the time the yacht reached the latitude of Lisbon both wind and sea were calm enough, he thought, for his first experiment. It had been decided that the dusk of the evening would be the best time for the attempt, for it was just as necessary on sea as on land to avoid observation. If the airship were descried from the deck of a homeward-bound vessel, the fact, and the name of the yacht, might be marconigraphed to England, and then, as Mr. Greatorex said, all Fleet Street would be in a buzz. Early one morning the crates were broken open. It took the best part of the day to piece the machine together, and Tom went over it bit by bit several times to assure himself that everything was in order. The airship was so placed that it could take flight over the stern of the yacht. When dusk was falling, the vessel’s engines were reversed, Tom arranging that as soon as the airship rose from the deck the yacht should be sent full speed ahead, to make sure that the apparatus cleared the vessel and ran no risk of fouling the funnel. Mr. Greatorex had shown some nervousness as the critical moment approached. He insisted on lowering a boat in case the airship came to grief and Tom were thrown into the sea. Timothy Ball, too, looked on with a most woful countenance as the final preparations were made. He had unslung a life belt, ready to slip into it and fling himself overboard if the airship broke down. “I feel sure in my inside it won’t work,” he said anxiously to Tom, as he stepped to the car. “It’ll be worse than suicide, sir.” “Why worse, Tim?” asked Mr. Greatorex. “‘Cos we’re lookin’ on, sir,” said Tim solemnly, and felt much hurt by the burst of laughter with which his explanation was received.