All right, then; in a pinch, properly
loaded with plenty of gasoline and stores, that machine would be able to
take three fellows like you two and myself all the way across the
Atlantic, and land us on American soil! Get that, do you, Jack?"
No one said a word for half a minute. The proposition was so astounding
that it might well have appalled the stoutest heart. At that time no one
had attempted to cross the Atlantic in a heavier-than-air plane, a feat
later on successfully accomplished. Nobody had piloted the way in a
Yankee-made seaplane; nor had any one navigated the air passage in a
monster dirigible. The three thousand miles of atmosphere lying between
Europe and America still stood an uncharted sea of vapor, where every
imaginable evil might lie in wait for the modern Columbus of aerial
navigation.
Then Jack drew a long breath. The lieutenant was watching the play of
emotion across his face, and he knew the seed had been sown in good
ground, where it was bound to take root. Jack's extremity would be his,
Lieutenant Beverly's, opportunity. So he returned to the attack, meaning
to "strike while the iron was hot."
"It staggers you at first, of course, Jack," he said, in his confident,
convincing way. "But why should it? The danger is great, but nothing
more than we're up against every day we set out for the clouds to give
battle to a tricky Hun ace, who may send us down to our death. And I
assure you we'd have at least a fighting chance to get across.
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