Dulcie was looking out of the window. “Aren’t we going rather fast?” she queried, as a couple of the reporters came up. “We are,” said the younger. “We just looked at the indicator thing, and we are buzzing along at a great rate.” “I must go and see,” said Dulcie, hurrying into the control room, where David held the wheel. “What are we making, Davie?” David beamed. “Ninety miles an hour!” “Why, David!” Dulcie studied him curiously. “Isn’t that pretty fast for us?” “Pretty good clip,” said David carelessly. “Does daddy know?” “I don’t believe so,” said David. “He hasn’t been around for quite a while.” “Well, he ought to know,” declared daddy’s own child. She went off, and almost immediately Mr. Hammond appeared. He said nothing, but went to the indicator and studied it. “What’s wrong with this indicator?” he asked finally. “We never make that speed.” “It has held that, according to the chart, ever since we left Los Angeles,” said David. There was a tremor in his voice, that he could scarcely control. “If it only works, if it only works!” his heart kept whispering. “If it only works!” he said when Red came forward to look at the indicator. Red gave him a look of disgust. “If it works! Why, it is working, you dumb-bell! Ninety! Has the commander seen it? Well, when are you going to tell him?” “When we reach Lakehurst,” said David. “I want to work it out. It is only fair to me to do that.” “It’s your funeral,” sighed Red, “and I’ll not say a word, but my, wouldn’t I enjoy it just to break the glad news to him!” From then on the dial gradually grew to be the center of a group of amazed and delighted officers. It climbed to ninety-one, wavered, went to ninety-three, ninety-four and steadied at ninety-five miles an hour. David called down to the five eggs by telephone, and the engineers declared that the engines were working as usual, with no extra expenditure of gas. Before Saturday dawned they were rushing over Texas. Soon El Paso was beneath them, then she faded away. At twelve-thirty, Kansas City, secure on the border line of two states, greeted them with bells, whistles and bombs. Then the yelling crowds, standing on roofs and blocking thoroughfares, and the inevitable escort of flitting planes, were behind them. At seven that evening, going ninety-eight miles an hour, they passed Chicago, the city roaring back at their roaring engines. At eleven Detroit appeared, her forests of chimneys belching flames of greeting, while hundreds of brazen factory whistles screeched their welcome. No one on the ship thought of bed. The passengers, crowded into the salon, watched the calm starlit night, listened to the thunder of the engines, and talked. At twelve the myriad lights of Cleveland appeared, crossed and recrossed below them, like chains of diamonds and fire opals. Searchlights caught and held them, a dozen airplanes darted up and played about them. Then the calm and the darkness again.