He gave an order through a voice tube. Promptly one of the crew appeared from below. "Take her, Taylor," said the skipper, indicating the helm. "Following wind--no drift. Course S. ¾ W." "S. ¾ W. it is, sir," repeated the man, peering into the bowl of the gyroscope compass. "Now, you bright beauties, take my tip and turn in," said Fosterdyke, addressing Peter and Kenneth. "There won’t be much doing to-night, I hope, so you may as well make the best of things. If you’ll relieve me at four, Kenyon? ... Good." The chums left the navigation-room and made their way to their cabin. Here, although adjoining one of the motor-rooms, there was comparatively little vibration, but the noise was considerable. "We’ll get used to it," observed Peter, as he proceeded to unpack his luggage, which had been brought from Blandford station and put on board only a few minutes before the "Golden Hind" parted company with terra firma. "Seems like old times. Hanged if I thought I’d ever be up again." "Between ourselves I’d prefer a ’bus," confided Kenyon. "Doesn’t seem quite the right thing being held up by a gas-bag." "Be thankful for small mercies, you old blighter!" exclaimed his companion. "Turn in as sharp as you can, ’cause it’s your watch in four hours’ time." It seemed less than ten minutes before Kenyon was awakened. His first impression was that he was being roused by his batman, and that illusion was heightened by the fact that the man held a cup of tea. "Ten to four, sir," announced the airman. "I’ve made you something hot." Kenneth thanked the man, drank the tea, and slipped out of his bunk. He was aware as he donned his clothes that the "Golden Hind" was pitching considerably. Peter, sound asleep, was breathing deeply. There was a smile on his face; evidently his dreams were pleasant ones. On his way for’ard Kenyon stopped to exchange a few words with the air-mechanic tending the two after motors. "Running like clocks, sir," replied the man in answer to Kenneth’s enquiry. "If things go on as they are going now, I’m on a soft job." The first streaks of dawn were showing in the north-eastern sky as the relieving pilot clambered up the ladder and gained the navigation-room. Fosterdyke, busy with parallel rulers and compass was bending over a chart. "Mornin’," he remarked genially, when he became aware of the presence of his relief. "Everything O.K. Doing eighty, and there’s a stiff following wind--force five. Altitude 5500, course S. ¾ W. That’s the lot, I think. We ought to be sighting the Spanish coast in another twenty minutes." Fosterdyke waited until the helmsman had been relieved, then, giving another glance ahead, he turned to Kenyon. "We passed something going in a westerly direction at 1.15 A.M.," he announced. "An airship flying fairly low. About 2000, I should think." "Not a competitor, sir?"