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The Angel Of The Revolution | George Chetwynd Griffith | |
A Skirmish In The Clouds |
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A Few minutes after two on the following morning, that is to say on the 28th, the electric signal leading from the conning-tower of the Ithuriel to the wall of Arnold's cabin, just above his berth, sounded. As it was only permitted to be used on occasions of urgency, he knew that his presence was immediately required forward for some good reason, and so he turned out at once, threw a dressing-gown over his sleeping suit, and within three minutes was standing in the conning-tower beside Andrew Smith, whose watch it then happened to be. "Well, Smith, what's the matter?" "Fleet of war-balloons coming up from the south'ard, sir. You can just see 'em, sir, coming on in line under that long bank of cloud." The captain of the Ithuriel took the night-glasses, and looked eagerly in the direction pointed out by his keen-eyed coxswain. As soon as he picked them up he had no difficulty in making out twelve small dark spots in line at regular intervals sharply defined against a band of light that lay between the earth and a long dark bank of clouds. It was a division of the Tsar's aerial fleet, returning from some work of death and destruction in the south to rejoin the main force before Berlin. Arnold's course was decided on in an instant. He saw a chance of turning the tables on his Majesty in a fashion that he would find as unpleasant as it would be unexpected. He turned to his coxswain and said-- "How is the wind, Smith?" |
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The Angel Of The Revolution George Chetwynd Griffith |
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