good-bye to his friend William Barracombe on Epsom Downs. The sky was
clear; the moon shone so brightly that by its light alone he could
read the compass at his elbow, without the aid of the small electric
lamp that hung above it. He set his course for the south-east, and
flew with a light breeze at a speed of at least two hundred miles an
hour.

His machine was a biplane, and represented the work and thought of
years. Smith never minimized the part which Laurent Rodier had had in
its construction; indeed, he was wont to say that without Rodier he
would have been nowhere. Their acquaintance and comradeship had begun
in the most accidental way. Two years before, Smith was taking part in
an aeroplane race from Paris to London. On reaching the Channel, he
found himself far ahead of all his competitors, except a Frenchman,
who, to his chagrin, managed to keep a lead of almost a mile. Each
carried a passenger. Not long after leaving the French coast, a cloud
of smoke suddenly appeared in the wake of the Frenchman's aeroplane,
and to Smith's alarm the machine in a few seconds dropped into the
sea. Instantly he steered for the spot, and brought his own aeroplane
to within a few feet of the water. To his surprise, he saw that part
of the wreckage was floating, and a man, apparently only half
conscious, was clinging to one of the stays. But for the engine having
providentially become disconnected in the fall, the whole machine with
its passengers must have sunk to the bottom.

Smith saw that it was impossible for him to rescue the man while he
himself remained in his aeroplane, for the slightest touch upon the
other would inevitably have submerged it. There was only one thing to
do. Leaving the aeroplane to the charge of his friend, he dived into
the sea, and rising beside the man, seized him at the moment when his