He introduces me to the captain of "162"--Captain Purnall,
and his relief, Captain Hodgson. The one is small and dark; the
other large and red; but each has the brooding sheathed glance
characteristic of eagles and aeronauts. You can see it in the
pictures of our racing professionals, from L.V. Rautsch to little
Ada Warrleigh--that fathomless abstraction of eyes habitually
turned through naked space.
On the notice-board in the Captains' Room, the pulsing arrows of
some twenty indicators register, degree by geographical degree,
the progress of as many homeward-bound packets. The word "Cape"
rises across the face of a dial; a gong strikes: the South
African mid-weekly mail is in at the Highgate Receiving Towers.
That is all. It reminds one comically of the traitorous little
bell which in pigeon-fanciers', lofts notifies the return of a
homer.
"Time for us to be on the move," says Captain Purnall, and we are
shot up by the passenger-lift to the top of the despatch-towers.
"Our coach will lock on when it is filled and the clerks are
aboard.
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