The mysterious airmen whose doings have been reported at intervals during the last few days have now appeared at San Francisco.  One of them is said to be a Lieutenant Thistleton Smith, who, according to our correspondent, explained that he has a bet of L10,000 with a well-known sporting nobleman that he will circle the globe in a fortnight.  The general opinion in San Francisco is that these sporadic appearances of airmen in far-distant spots are part of a cleverly devised scheme of world-wide advertisement, engineered by a Chicago pork-packing firm who have more than once displayed considerable ingenuity in pushing their products.

There was general laughter when Smith read this paragraph aloud.  Rodier alone was solemn.

“They think we boom pigs!” he cried indignantly.  “Pigs themselves.”

“Well, Roddy, truth will out,” said Smith.  “I’m sorry to keep you up, by the way, but I shall have to leave at six o’clock.  Would you mind running down to the shed and—­cleaning the engine?”

“Mon Dieu!  I do nothing for a week but clean the engine.”

“Yes, poor chap, but you shall have a rest after this.  Go to bed when you’ve got things shipshape; I shall go alone; only about four hundred miles this time.”

“You really mean it, then?” said Barracombe.

“Decidedly.  If you knew Captain Bolitho you would see that there’s no help for it.”

“Well, then, the sooner you eat your supper and get between the sheets the better.  I’ll tuck you up.”

“Tuck in and tuck up.  Very well.”

“Your bath shall be ready at six, sir,” said Simmons.

A few minutes after six o’clock, Smith made his ascent, his departure being witnessed by his sister and Barracombe and the whole domestic staff.  He flew rapidly over Hampshire, Dorset, Devon; crossed the Bristol Channel, and made a bee-line for Bear Haven at the entrance to Bantry Bay.  Soon after eight he descried a number of dull grey specks strung like beads on the western horizon.  They must be one or other of the opposing fleets, either the Reds or the Blues; but which?  He must go and see.  Altering his course a point or two, in a few minutes he was running down the line of warships, which were steaming line ahead, apparently in the direction of Bear Haven.  At a glance he recognized the Thunderbolt, notoriously the lame duck of the Reds, lagging three or four miles behind the rest.  Smith slowed down to quarter speed as he passed the leading ships, and a few blank shots were fired at him for form’s sake, for the guns were incapable of an inclination that would be dangerous to him at his height of 3,000 feet, even if they were throwing live shell.