The wind was lessening, and the Moonbeam was steadily picking up speed. At seven o’clock that evening they passed within thirty miles of Yakutsk, lying toward the southwest. The evening went gaily. Dulcie brought out her mandolin, and the youngest reporter confessed to a guitar. There was singing, too, and Doctor Trigg surprised everyone with a knowledge of the words of about every college song ever written. He sang them, too, in a lusty, wabbly old voice, happily oblivious of Doctor Sims’ “Ha’s,” “Humphs” and “Gr-r-r-r-rs.” At two the next morning, Thursday, they reached the Port of Ayan, on the Sea of Okhotsk. They had safely gained the eastern coast of Asia. At breakfast that morning, Mr. Hammond was elated. “We have made up all the time we lost in the storm over the Atlantic, in spite of the winds over the Urals,” he exclaimed. “We will surely make a lot crossing the Pacific—eight hours, at least, if we have good weather, and another two crossing the United States will put us in Lakehurst eight hours ahead of the flying time of the Graf Zeppelin.” David shook his head. “I hate to have the chief set his heart on such a record,” he said to Red, as they later went forward to the control room. “You know we won’t have that much luck.” “If we do, it sure will be luck,” said Red, skeptically. The passengers seemed rather glad to leave the trans-Siberian part of the flight behind them, although it had been a wonderful experience. When Dulcie succeeded in cornering her father, she declared that Davie was growing very thin. She rebuked her parent for the amount of responsibility he had placed on David’s shoulders. Finally he replied: “Look here, little gadfly, if you will stop buzzing for a while, I will explain my methods. This young David Ellison is rather better than the average, (‘Much,’ said Dulcie.) and he has a good mind; an excellent mind. (‘A perfectly wonderful mind,’ muttered Dulcie.) He’s a splendid type of the young American, (‘Um,’ said Dulcie.) and I want to see if he has the stuff in him that I think he has. If it’s there, Dulcie, I mean to give him a helping hand.” “Atta boy, daddy!” cried Dulcie. “He has got brains. Has he said anything to you about the invention he is working on?” “Not a word; what is it?” “He doesn’t want anyone to know about it, and I’m not to breathe a word even to you, but it is something about something to fasten on the engines that will make them do something or other a great deal better than they are doing it now, and all that. It is marvelously important, and I’m not to mention it to a soul.” “I wouldn’t. Some unscrupulous person, hearing you talk about it, might jot the whole thing down and get a patent on it. In the meantime, to go back, I won’t be able to find out what stuff he’s made of unless I work him like the devil. So keep your finger out of this pie, Miss Hammond. The young man is not your type, anyhow.” “What is my type, then?” asked Dulcie, curiously. “Well, there’s Cram.”