Tom had
long before marked out his course, and kept an eye on the compass as
well as on his little chart.
He knew they were heading for the Channel port as straight as the crow
flies. The sun was getting far down in the western sky, and it was now
necessary to shield their eyes when looking ahead, on account of the
dazzling glare that at times threatened to blind them.
The character of the country below had changed materially, Jack told the
pilot, who seldom had a chance to look through the glasses, since his
entire attention was taken up with manipulating the engine, watching its
rhythmical working, and keeping the plane pushing directly on its course.
"Heine didn't get a chance to ruin things here when he passed through,
going to Paris and to his smash on the Marne," Jack explained. "Towns and
villages look natural, as I see them, and they must have harvested crops
in those brown fields. This is a bit of the real France, and entirely
different from the horrible desert we've been at work in so long."
The afternoon was wearing away. Jack frequently stared eagerly off to the
west, when the sun's glowing face was veiled for a brief time by some
friendly cloud. Several times he believed he could see something that
looked like a stretch of water, but dared not voice his hopes.
Then came a time when a heavier cloud than usual masked the brightness
of the declining sun. Another long earnest look and Jack burst out with a
triumphant shout.
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