A huge, black hull, with white passenger decks, rising tier on
tier, four huge red funnels with black tops, and slender masts, between
which hung the spider-web aerials of her wireless apparatus. Her bow was
creaming up the ocean into foam, as she rushed onward at a twenty-four
knot gait.
Roy, obeying a daring impulse, let the _Golden Butterfly_ descend. Now
they could see her promenade decks lined with white faces peering upward.
Here and there the sun glinted on the bright metal work of cameras, all
aimed at the wonderful spectacle of the soaring, buoyant _Golden
Butterfly_.
"Oh, if only we could drop a message on her decks!" breathed Peggy
eagerly. "I do wish we had a post-card or something----"
"By ginger," cried Roy suddenly, "I do believe I've got some in my
coat-pocket. I bought some in the village yesterday to mail to the chaps
back at school. Yes. Here they are, and here's a fountain-pen. Now write
all you want."
Peggy took the cards her brother handed to her with his free hand, and,
with the fountain-pen, sat down to compose some messages. After a few
seconds' thought, she began to write busily. Card after card was covered
with her neat penmanship. All this time Roy had kept the _Golden
Butterfly_ hovering above the liner, from time to time taking swoops and
dives around it like some monstrous sea gull.
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