“You’ll have to beware of interviewers,” said Tom.  “You may be sure the newspaper men have got wind of you by this time.”

“I don’t know.  Barracombe wouldn’t say anything; I don’t think Johnson in Constantinople would, and—­”

“My dear fellow, don’t make any mistake,” said Captain Warren.  “Nobody ever does say anything, but the newspaper men somehow or other know what you think about when you’re abed and asleep.”

“They must all be Irishmen, then.”

“Or Americans.  I wouldn’t mind betting that they are getting up a reception for you at ’Frisco—­”

“But they don’t know I’m going there.”

“No matter; the word has gone out to keep a watch for you, and every town in the States will be on the qui vive.  I’m rather sorry for you when you come down for petrol; you won’t get off so easily as you did on the way out.”

“Of course you won’t,” said Tom.  “I suppose you’ll wire ahead for petrol to be held ready for you?  That will give you away.”

“No, I shall chance it.  I can get petrol in any town in the States, and I won’t risk delay by announcing myself.”

“You had better have a good sleep before you start,” said Underhill.  “What time do you want to go?”

“Not later than midnight.”

“Well, you’ve got nearly four hours.  Your man had better sleep, too.  I’ll see to the engine.”

“Roddy won’t allow that.  I see that he has got help.  He’ll be finished in half-an-hour.  By all means put him to bed then, if you’ll promise to wake us both in good time.”

“I’ll do that.  I won’t spoil sport.  Go to the further end of the camp, and I’ll tuck you up in the tarpaulin, put some food on board, and see that everything is shipshape.”

Smith was glad enough to avail himself of the opportunity of three or four hours’ continuous sleep on land.  Rodier showed more reluctance, declaring that he was as fit as a fiddle; but Captain Warren bore him away from the crowd of admirers, and stood over him until he, like his master, was sleeping soundly.

A quarter of an hour before midnight the two airmen were awakened.  Farewells were said, hands were shaken all round, every one wish them good luck, and precisely at twelve they took their seats and set forth on the two thousand miles flight to Samoa.

CHAPTER XV

HERR SCHWANKMACHER’S CABBAGES

A little before twelve on Monday, Herr Rudolph Schwankmacher, one of the most respected residents of Apia, capital of Samoa, was reclining under the shade of a plantain in his garden beyond the promontory of Mulinuu, enjoying the conversation of a friend and the refreshing bitterness of a bottle of light lager beer.  The garden rose a few feet above the level of the ground in front of it, and afforded an excellent view over the sea.  Hither Herr Schwankmacher was wont to retire for a brief spell of rest and meditation in the heat of the day, and on this occasion he had been accompanied by a compatriot newly arrived from Germany, to whom he was expatiating on the pleasures of colonial life in general, and in particular on the delights of rearing cabbages in so rich and prolific a soil.