lit sky, the earth beneath us became increasingly mysterious and misty. Here and there dim lights showed, single lights of scattered cottages unseen by rural constables, or improperly obscured lights from the larger houses.
Soon some red and green lights showed away on our left, and I knew that in the valley there ran the main railway line to London.
By day, at an altitude of 2,500 feet, the whole surface of the earth appears perfectly flat, hills and valleys seeming to be on the same level. Therein lies one of the dangers of aerial navigation. The contour of the earth is quite indistinguishable when one is half a mile high, therefore the altimeter is not of very great use—and more especially so at night. The instrument only records the number of feet above sea-level, and not above the earth. Thus, a pilot flying by night can very easily pass over a valley and suddenly find himself encountering a range of high hills with a fatal belt of trees or row of houses.
Such is exactly what happened to us on that memorable night. We crossed the valley, and as I steered straight by compass in the direction of Stockhurst at about thirty miles an hour, I had dipped and of a sudden I found myself nearing a dark, high hill. Just in time I shot up and cleared, I believe only by inches, the roof of a house.
Roseye was quick to notice our sudden ascent and how we skimmed over the house and the trees of somebody's park as we kept our rather zigzag course.
A clever writer upon aeroplanes has, with much truth, pointed out that the natural course of a machine is never a direct one, and if a line could be drawn
