"Well, according to my calculations," said Tom, "we should be about quit
of England and striking the Irish Sea at its junction with the Atlantic.
It's that you believe you see right now."
"Then before long we'll glimpse Ireland's lights!" cried the exultant
Jack. "Though we're likely to pass over only the city of Cork as we dash
on for the big sea beyond. So far everything is moving like grease,
Lieu--Colin."
"I promised you it would," the pilot told him. "And let's hope it keeps
up this way all the way through."
Again they ceased trying to talk since it proved such an effort without
resorting to the little wireless telephone arrangement. Jack did notify
them, however, when he believed he sighted tiny specks far below that he
took for the lights of some place of consequence; but Tom, who knew
better, assured him he must be mistaken.
"You're straining your eyes so much you mistake other things for
lights, Jack," he told the observer. "It might even be the reflection
of the stars on the glasses of your binoculars. We're not near Cork
yet, and there's no other place worth mentioning that we'll come near.
Rest up, Jack."
"Plenty of time for that after we've struck out over the ocean," came
Jack's defiant answer.
Later on he again declared he saw lights. They had been speeding for some
hours at a rate of more than sixty miles, which was good time for one of
those monster heavily laden bombers to make.
"Yes, I imagine it's Cork this time," said Tom, when appealed to.
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