His hair would have risen on end--if it had not been wool.
"The sea! The sea!" he cried.

And Frycollin would have fallen on the deck had not the cook opened his arms to receive him.
This cook was a Frenchman, and probably a Gascon, his name being Francois Tapage.

If he was not a Gascon he must in his infancy have inhaled the breezes of the Garonne.

How did this Francois Tapage find himself in the service of the engineer?
By what chain of accidents had he become one of the crew of the "Albatross ?" We can hardly say; but in any case be spoke English like a Yankee.

"Eh, stand up!" he said, lifting the Negro by a vigorous clutch at the waist.
"Master Tapage!" said the poor fellow, giving a despairing look at the screws.
"At your service, Frycollin." "Did this thing ever smash ?" "No, but it will end by smashing." "Why?
Why ?" "Because everything must end.
"And the sea is beneath us!" "If we are to fall, it is better to fall in the sea." "We shall be drowned." "We shall be drowned, but we shall not be smashed to a jelly." The next moment Frycollin was on all fours, creeping to the back of his cabin.
During this day the aeronef was only driven at moderate speed.