Smith waited with his hand on the lever until the fire-engine had
dashed up.

"What the blazes!" cried the captain, as he leapt from his seat,
looking from the motor-car to the aeroplane with mingled amazement and
indignation.

"Good-bye, Billy," cried Smith; "I'll leave you to explain."

The propeller whirled round, the machine flew forwards, and in a few
seconds was soaring with its booming hum into the air. Smith glanced
down and saw the fireman facing Barracombe, his annoyance being
evidently greater than his curiosity. He would have smiled if he
could have heard Barracombe's explanation.

"W-w-why yes," he said, affecting a distressing stutter; "this kind of
b-b-bonfire is a hobby of m-mine; it's about my only r-r-recreation.
M-m-my name? Certainly. My name's William bub-bub-Barracombe, and
you'll find me in, any day between t-ten and f-five, at 532
mum-mum-Mincing Lane."




CHAPTER III

ACROSS EUROPE TO THE BOSPHOROUS


It had just turned half-past twelve on Friday morning when Smith said