Machines and alighting grounds—The cost of flying—An imaginary tour—The sensations of a passenger—How laws will be framed to govern flight—Aerial smugglers and spies.

The joys of aerial touring are such that it is difficult to do them justice. Free from the earth and its obstructions, free from police traps and dust, and the noise and traffic of the roads, the aerial tourist wings his way—serenely and with ease, a panorama spread below and upon either hand, and with a wine-like freshness in the air. Who would be chained to a road, winding here and there, when he might pass high above the earth upon the aerial highway? The day is already dawning when, housing his aircraft say at Hendon as a convenient starting-point, the most modern of travellers will tour regularly by air, using a plane as he would a motor-car, and throwing himself with zest into the new amusement that is offered him.

Prejudices of course die hard; there are still the occasional accidents which are reported in the daily press; still there is the lurking notion that because a flying craft passes through the air and not upon the ground, it can never be safe. But facts must speak, and are speaking; and daily, and almost hourly, this mountain of prejudice is being moved. For every mishap that happens men are now flying many thousands of miles, and flying not only in safety, but with comfort and pleasure. Nor do craft any longer collapse while in the air, nor motors fail constantly; nor does the wind hold those terrors that it did at first. Touring aircraft that are both scientific and airworthy may be obtained, and as a practical means of transit from point to point—speedier and more pleasant than the motor-car—the aeroplane now finds frequent use. The pleasure use of planes is encouraged, also, by their growing comfort. Pilots and passengers sat formerly upon bare, open seats exposed to the rush of air: but a modern touring craft has a neatly enclosed body, like that of a motor-car with padded seats, and screens to protect its occupants from the rush of wind. How snug it is within the hull of a latest-type machine may be seen from Fig. 97. Of course the air tourist, like the motorist, needs some objective for his day’s journey—some place to which he may fly and alight, and at which he may house his machine; and here and there even to-day, at the dozen or more flying grounds dotted about England, such facilities may be found; even, for instance, at Lanark, in far-off Scotland. But France is still greatly ahead of us in this respect—and Germany too: they have, already, a very large number of air-stations, and are adding to them rapidly. All that is needed, to form an alighting spot, is a suitable stretch of open land with some sheds, a repair shop, a telephone, and one or two mechanics in attendance. The establishment of such landing grounds for the aerial tourist, which would correspond to the halts of the motorist, will form one of the next great developments of flying. Like stations on a railway, or garages upon a main road, will be the landing-points for aeroplanes; no growth in touring can be expected without them.

It is not so expensive as some might imagine to tour by air. A man may, for an expenditure of £1200, buy a two-seated 80-h.p. monoplane, or a biplane seating three people; and the running expenses, for such craft as these, should represent a figure of about 5-1/2d. per mile. Then upon a tour, say, of three months, covering a distance of 4000 miles, there would be incidental expenses to reckon with, as follows: £36 for the services of a mechanic; £12 for garaging; £50 for repairs; and £10 as insurance against any third-party risks. In the future, of course, when machines are built in large numbers, and standardised in their output like cars, the cost of flying will be reduced greatly; but even to-day, with aerial touring in its infancy, a man need not be a millionaire to enjoy it. And one must, when cost is being considered, remember the sheer thrill that is experienced by the man who flies, and the invigoration of the air, say, at 3000 feet, which acts as a pure, splendid tonic for those who have jaded nerves. There is, too, the wonderful bird’s-eye view which may be obtained by those in an aeroplane. They see the land below them, stretching for mile after mile till it is shrouded in delicate mist; moving away slowly, appearing far-distant and quite remote, and yet revealed in all its detail—roads seem like ribbons, railways like tiny glistening threads, and rivers and lakes shining mirror-like. The day will soon dawn upon which, secure from any haunting fear of accident, the tourist will sweep up in his machine at Hendon, sail smoothly to the sea-coast, thence to some beauty spot inland, and so on till he has toured the kingdom.

Already, granted he has a suitable machine, a man may roam the air pleasantly in England; and it may prove of interest to picture such a tour—with the airmen leaving Hendon early, just as the first summer’s mist has gone, and the sun is mounting to another glorious day. There are, let us say, three of you in the party; and you are ready, after a cup of hot and welcome coffee, to take your seats within the machine—which stands waiting upon the grass, its planes glinting in the sun. Mechanics have appeared from the sheds as your motor-car approached, and the pilot of the machine, wearing his flying garb, has come forward with a greeting; and now, while you are finishing your coffee, the mechanics have filled the fuel tanks and, under the supervision of the pilot, given a final glance here and there.

“Ready?” the airman questions; then with a smile he orders: “all aboard!”

You climb up into the hull of the craft, and find yourselves in neat, armchair seats, which prove extremely comfortable. Then, after a final word to the mechanics, the pilot mounts to his place before you—his driving-seat being in the bow of the machine.

Now he calls an order, and the mechanics walk behind the machine; then, breaking upon the stillness of the morning, comes the roar of the motor. You feel the machine strain suddenly forward; but it is held back; and for a moment or so there is nothing but the harsh clamour of the engine. Then, watching the pilot, you see him turn slightly in his seat and raise an arm; and at the same instant there is a movement of the craft. You glance over the side of the hull, and see that the ground has begun to race away sternwards. The swift, steady forward impulse continues; there is a rush of wind past the hull; and then, the transition from earth to air being so gentle that it is imperceptible, and before your senses can register an impression, the machine has glided free of the ground, and is in actual flight. It is not until your eyes, still turned downward, see that the aerodrome with its sheds has begun to sink away below, that you realise you are in the air. Plate XV shows how people who may be waving you farewell, appear when viewed from an aircraft that is ascending.

Down, as though drawn by some giant, unseen hand, sinks the surface of the land; and you yourself, save for the wind which comes whistling past the hull, might be suspended motionless in the air. Smooth, seemingly quite effortless, is the progress of the machine; and the air aloft is—well, such air as, for sheer exhilaration, you have never breathed before; and, although it has an early-morning chill, you are shielded by the snug, covered-in body of your craft. The machine as it thrusts its way forward, is rising steadily—now 500, now 1000 feet; and as you fix your eyes again upon the pilot, you see that he is making a turn. He is in fact swinging his craft so as to steer for Kempton Park, where a tall chimney forms a landmark for many miles; and the reason for the manoeuvre is this: you are bound, as a first flight, for the aerodrome by the sea which has been established at Shoreham; but to fly there straight from Hendon would mean passing above London, and this by aerial law is not allowed. For the safety of the public, indeed, all flights over towns are prohibited, it being held that there might be danger, for those below, from the fall or collapse of a machine. So pilots make detours round areas that are populated; and your steersman, having no desire to infringe the rules, points his bow south-west and soon covers the fourteen miles to Kempton Park. Round the chimney to which he has been flying you make your turn; then he corrects his course due south and steers steadily for the sea-coast, still rising gently; while around and below—like a scene from fairyland—lies the panorama of the landscape.

A flight of 40 miles now lies before you. The motor throbs rhythmically, the altitude is 3000 feet, and your craft sways a little sometimes, ever so slightly, as it encounters a gust of wind. Below lies Surrey, with its commons, parks, and woods; and the effect of your height is now peculiar. You have a fixed delusion that the aeroplane is standing still, and that you are moving neither forward nor sideways; and yet your speed, as a matter of fact, is more than 50 miles an hour, and the sea-coast creeps nearer mile by mile. This illusion, this strong belief that you are motionless, is due to your height above the ground. Looking down upon the earth, from an altitude of several thousand feet, you have no near object by which you can gauge your speed. It is the same when one glances from the window of an express, and catches sight of some distant hill. Even in a train running at sixty miles an hour, if you watch a landmark that is remote, it will seem that your pace is slow; and yet if you note the telegraph poles close beside the track, you see that they are flying past your carriage window.

Soon, after peering steadily ahead, your pilot turns towards you with a call: “Look—the sea!”

Your eyes follow the direction of his outstretched arm, and there, faint upon the sky-line but quite distinct, and reflecting the glint of the sun, lie the waters of the Channel. The land at its brink is only dimly visible at first: there is a slight sea-mist; but soon, as your craft speeds closer, the wide sweep of the coast is open to your view. Westward lies Selsey Bill, at the extremity of a stretch of shore which juts boldly to the sea; and then from west to east, as you turn your head, you follow the line of the coast until Beachy Head, standing clear-cut and distinct, caps to the eastward this fine-drawn curve. You call an inquiry, and your pilot points ahead: almost in the centre of the bay, at a point where a glint of water, seen a little way inland, reveals the location of Shoreham Harbour, lies the aerodrome that is your goal.

Quite soon, still driven smoothly by your motor, you hover above the alighting point; and then moving over a little switch upon the dashboard before him, the airman cuts off his power. The booming drone of the engine dies away, and at the same moment you feel the craft tilt forward, and see the aerodrome below, fringed by the roofs of its sheds. And, in the sudden stillness which has fallen, you hear the wail of the wind, shrieking past your struts and planes. Down quite gently glides the craft, and you see a movement of little figures near some sheds; then you touch ground without shock, and the machine runs forward a short distance and halts. This stage of your flight is shown in Fig. 98.

The pilot glances at a little clock that is fixed on his dashboard; then stands up to stretch his limbs.

“Just over an hour,” he says. “Not so bad. With the 14 miles to Kempton Park and then the 41 here—that makes 55. She’s been doing a steady 50 an hour.”

Now a little group surrounds the machine, and calls up questions about your flight.

“What sort of a trip, old man?” queries a brother pilot of the driver of your craft.

“Is the wind steady up above?” asks a young man in a flying helmet, who is one of the pupils of the flying school.

Answering the eager questioners as best you can, you clamber down from the hull. Several aeroplanes, you now observe, are out upon the aerodrome, and here and there a novice is at work—either “rolling” his craft to and fro, or attempting a short, straight flight; and, even though it is still early, visitors may be seen near the sheds; they have motored out from Brighton to watch the practice flights.

But your chief concern, you find, is in the matter of breakfast; the air has given you an appetite that will not brook delay. A motor-car stands in readiness; so you take your seats and drive into Brighton, where you enjoy a leisurely meal. Then comes a drive along the sea-front in the beauty of the morning sun: and after this you return to the aerodrome, where the biplane stands waiting for its second flight. You have decided—wishing to remain by the sea—that you will fly on along the coast to Eastbourne, where there is another aerodrome at which you may alight. So, with a shout of farewell ringing in your ears, the big machine sweeps skyward—up swiftly and steadily, circling as she climbs; and then your pilot turns eastward, and you fly above the fringe of the sea. Along past Brighton the aircraft makes her way, and you note the people on the beach—looking no bigger than ants upon a path—as they stand in little groups and watch your progress. High above the piers the biplane flies, and you see the town lying mapped away inland, with the electric railway skirting the water’s edge. Then on swiftly, following the line of the cliffs, a cool sea-breeze beating into your face. The earth below seems to fade into insignificance; far-distant, skirting the brink of the cliffs like a thin, white ribbon, you see a lonely road; and all the time, climbing higher and higher through the sunshine, your pilot forces his plane aloft Three thousand feet, four thousand feet—still you ascend; and soon the needle of the height recorder stands at 5000 feet. Newhaven is now below, with its river winding away inland; and a superb view, which includes water, sea, and land, is spread at your feet.

On you fly, with the machine swaying a little every now and then, as it encounters such wind eddies as are formed where sea meets land. With the heat increasing, these aerial disturbances grow marked, and your pilot swings more seaward, so as to avoid the influence of the swirls which rise upward above the cliffs. Beachy Head is quickly reached, with its lighthouse showing clearly. Now your pilot turns north-east, and quite soon you are over Eastbourne, and planing down to reach the flying ground. This second stage of your tour is shown in Fig. 99. Again, when you have alighted, there is a greeting from airmen and their friends; then, while you examine some aeroplanes in their sheds, and discuss the pleasures of your trip with those about you, the pilot of your machine has made an overhaul and is ready again to take the air.

This time, still hugging the coast, you have decided to fly to Dover. Here at Whitfield, a mile or two out of the town, there is an excellent aerodrome, and the flight from Eastbourne is one of 52 miles. But a point to be remembered is that Dover, with its fortifications, which might be spied from the air, has now been declared out of bounds by aerial law, and no pilot—unless he obtains a permit—is allowed to fly nearer than within three miles of its castle. For a British aircraft, however, when bent upon a pleasure tour, there should be no difficulty in securing such an exemption as is required; and we will assume you have been granted one, and have a right to cross the harbour and pass the castle on the hill. Rising quickly, therefore, and with your motor running sweetly, you steer eastward from the aerodrome, and are soon at Bexhill. This gives place to Hastings as the coast sweeps below; and then you see Dungeness, 15 miles ahead, jutting out upon the sea. This reached, and left behind, and you have Dover ahead, with not more than 20 miles to fly; and your pilot, steering a course directly for his goal, takes you out several miles to sea, so that you observe Romney and Dymchurch lying away upon your left.

It is now that, turning a moment from his control-wheel, the airman points south-east across the Channel.

“Look!” he calls; “France!”

Distinctly, indeed, away upon the sky-line, you can see the outline of the French coast; and as you look, Cape Grisnez, stretching its arm of land towards England, quite clearly takes the eye.

On, with the engine singing its sleepy song, the biplane speeds; and when you glance earthward again it is the Shakespeare Cliff that is passing away below; then Dover, with its steamboat pier and harbour works, lies directly beneath your feet. You see the square outline of the harbour hotel, looking like a doll’s house from some children’s game; and along a shining ribbon of rail, with a tiny jet of steam behind it, a little toy engine is busily shunting a miniature train. A second or so later, and the noise of the motor has ceased; then—rushing earthward in a long, swift, perfect glide—you reach your landing at Whitfield, and another stage, as seen in Fig. 100, has been accomplished safely.

At Dover, while resting and taking a meal, you discuss your next flight; and it is decided to make for Eastchurch, in the Isle of Sheppey, where there is a busy and important aerodrome, and the naval airmen have their school. This, as seen by Fig. 101, represents a flight of only 27 miles. Away again, therefore, and flying now inland, you pass Canterbury and some belts of woodland: then, flying above the river Swale, you find you are over Sheppey and with Eastchurch right before you. Here, in the middle of the sleepy little island, where an active colony of airmen has been formed, the Royal Aero Club has its flying ground; and it is here, too, that Messrs. Short Brothers, after moving from Leysdown, a few miles away, established an aeroplane factory in which—after building Wright biplanes under licence from the famous brothers—they developed those splendid sea-planes which are used in the naval service.

From Eastchurch, where there is much to be seen, many routes may be chosen upon the aerial highway. One may fly to Brooklands or Uphaven, to Farnborough or Amesbury or Huntingdon. But you determine probably that, returning to Hendon for the night, you will house your aircraft there, and so be ready next day for some other tour afield. Your course lies to East Tilbury, a distance of 19 miles; then to Enfield, 25 miles—so as to avoid passing above London; and thence, an 8-mile stretch, steering W.S.W., to the landing ground at Hendon. The route is shown in Fig. 102. It makes, in all, a flight of slightly more than 50 miles; and as it necessitates crossing the Thames—a flight out of bounds according to aerial law—you will need to have obtained a permit, as was the case with your journey to Dover.

In the cool of the summer’s evening, refreshed by a cup of tea, you leave Eastchurch behind you and set off upon your final flight. Your course lies W.N.W., and soon you pass from the island and have the waters of the Medway below your feet. Then on again over land, with the mouth of the Thames upon your right. East Tilbury is now ahead, and you cross above the Thames, with Gravesend to the left and a wide, open stretch of river behind. Then with Essex beneath, and the river still winding to his left, your pilot steers towards Enfield. Soon the smoke of London looms in the distance to the west, and you pass near districts where the houses stand close-packed. Now Enfield is reached, and the steersman makes his turn: then, ten minutes or so later, the song of the engine is stilled; and in the gathering dusk—impressively and without a sound—you begin your downward glide. Round in a wide, smooth circle, and with his planes “banked” steeply, does your pilot wheel. Then you come finally to rest, and climb a little stiffly from your seats: the day’s air-tour is done. Visiting four aerodromes, three of them at the brink of the sea, you have flown a total distance of just over 200 miles.

On another day, perhaps, you will fly to Oxford; or tour above the West of England and alight at Filton, near Bristol; here and there even now, at the grounds dotted about the country, you will find facilities for landing. Should there be no aerodrome near, and a descent becomes inevitable, then your pilot must choose the best field he can see, and alight in that: it is all part of the adventure. Sometimes, certainly, a motor will fail in awkward circumstances—say when a pilot is over wooded or precipitous country. But with the airman, always, it is a point of honour that he should see the humorous side of things; and this gayness of outlook he will, even under most trying circumstances, strive manfully to maintain. Flying across country one day with a passenger, a pilot heard a sound from his motor that told him some valve or rod had broken; and the next moment, without further warning, the engine stopped. The wind at the time was gusty, and the ground below unsuitable for landing; but the pilot remained unperturbed. Perceiving beneath him an orchard, which seemed to offer the least of many evils as an alighting point, he leaned towards his passenger with a smile.

“I hope,” he said, “you’re fond of apples.”

So far, when he tours the air, a pilot has few restrictions. He must not fly above certain areas, it is true, but in the main the sky is free to him, and as yet he need not register or number the craft he buys, like the owner of a motor vehicle has to do. The fact is, however, that laws for the air have been studied, and in some cases a schedule prepared; but no definite scheme of rules has, up to the present, been placed upon the Statute books. The intention is, indeed, to allow the science to develop with as few limitations as may be possible. There are so many problems to be solved in regard to the governing of flight, that they can only be dealt with as they arise. The air, as an element in which men may navigate a craft, has aspects which are unique. Oceans and continents, for example, all have their limitations: the land ends and the sea begins, and then the sea in its turn gives place again to land. The traveller from London, say, to Paris, first passing from inland to the sea, has to leave the train and embark upon a boat, only to change again into a train and finish his journey—as he began—by way of the land. But an aerial voyager between the two cities finds no restrictions such as these: the air has only one boundary—the point at which it touches the surface of the earth; and so he may rise from London, and fly with equal facility above land or sea.

Although the air has no limitations, such as are encountered by land or sea, there has been discussion between nations as to the rules they should impose to control the flight of craft. It has been agreed, without question, that the air-space over the high seas should be regarded as free, and also above territory that is unoccupied. The idea of an aerial law which is thought most reasonable, indeed, is that the sky over the whole globe should be declared free for traffic, but that each nation should be allowed to enforce rules to prevent attack or spying from above, and to check aerial smuggling. But that flying over a frontier might be controlled by a corps of aerial police is considered hardly feasible: it would be almost impossible indeed—had he made up his mind to do so—to prevent an airman from crossing above some boundary. Even were there patrol craft on duty, he could rise high among the clouds and so escape detection.

Such difficulties as these will, sooner or later, have to be faced; but at present there are in existence only the simplest of laws, and these have been framed for the safety of the public, and to protect strategical areas from the attentions of foreign spies. Flying over towns is—as has been stated—declared a dangerous practice, and is no longer allowed; while the officials of our Home Office, after consultation with the naval and military authorities, have imposed restrictions upon the entry into this country of foreign craft. A machine reaching our shores from abroad can only land, for instance, between the points specified below, and outlined upon Fig. 103, and then only after its pilot has given eighteen hours’ notice to the Home Office, either by letter or telegram, of his intended flight:[3]

It is declared unlawful for an aircraft entering England from abroad to carry any goods upon which Customs duty is payable, or the importation of which is prohibited by law; any photographic apparatus, carrier pigeons, explosives, or firearms, or any mails. Upon arrival in one of the landing areas prescribed, the airman fills up an official report, and obtains a permit which allows him to continue his flight inland. Before leaving the country, upon his return abroad, he must alight in one of the coastal areas. No exemptions are granted to these rules unless by the authority of the Home Office, and no foreign naval and military aircraft are permitted to fly over or land in England unless upon a Government invitation.

A number of points in the United Kingdom have been specified over which, for strategical reasons, no flying is permitted—although such rules do not apply of course to British naval and military craft. The mouth of the Thames is closed to aviation; fortifications like those at Dover are declared out of bounds; also dock-yards such as that at Portsmouth. The question arises naturally: how are these rules to be enforced? What is to prevent an aircraft infringing them? By the Act of Parliament in which they are set forth, there is a clause which reads:

“If an aircraft flies or attempts to fly over any area prescribed under this Act for the purposes of the defence or safety of the realm ... it shall be lawful for any officer designated for the purpose by regulations made by the Secretary of State, to cause such signal as may be prescribed by those regulations to be given, and, if after such signal has been given the aircraft fails to respond to the signal ... it shall be lawful for the officer to fire at or into such aircraft, and to use any and every other means necessary to compel compliance.”

Guns for use against aircraft have already been placed around our coasts, and some of these would be employed no doubt to fire upon a pilot who seemed deliberately to break the law; but this assumes of course that he is visible; were he flying very high, or were clouds to obscure the view, he might defy the officials who watched below. Just what may happen, when such laws are required for daily use, time alone will show; at present, beyond the bringing to our police courts of certain foreign pilots who have flown above prohibited areas on their way from France to Hendon, no data is available; and these offending airmen, pleading that they had no knowledge of the new laws, have been treated leniently by magistrates.

The whole question of aerial law must be considered seriously by the nations; and in view of the preparation of some general code of rules the International Aeronautical Federation—which is the central authority upon aviation, and represents the world’s Aero Clubs—has held many meetings and drafted a number of proposals. It is held, to begin with, that all aircraft must be registered, and that an international list of machines must be compiled; also that craft must be marked with letters indicating their nationality—such as “G.B.” for Great Britain and “F” for France. By such means, and particularly by use of an international register, any craft could be identified, even if flying in a foreign country; and should it escape observation while in the air by flying high, it would need ultimately to land, and would then have its identity revealed. The pilot in charge would have identification papers, and a certificate showing his proficiency. The rules for obtaining such a certificate, in days when men take charge of large passenger machines, will need to be more exacting than they are at the present time; and it is argued that, before he is put in control of such a craft, an airman should pass a medical examination so as to show he is organically sound, and fit both in eyesight and nerve to steer a high-speed, powerful machine.

When a craft is registered, and its pilot has his certificate, it is considered necessary that—before he has a right to fly—he should apply for an official form, which would be known as a permit to travel. This would contain all necessary details for the identification of himself and his machine, and would allow him to fly anywhere within his own country: but it would not be available for an aerial tour abroad. He would be required, before starting upon a foreign flight, to give up this home permit, and obtain in place of it a special Customs’ bulletin. This would specify the nationality of the machine, give particulars of its registration, and provide details as to its passengers, goods, and baggage; also the date and place of its departure from England, with the destination to which it was bound. On landing abroad, the airman would hand to the authorities his bulletin, and receive in exchange a document showing that the Customs’ officers had examined his machine and that he had paid what duty might be claimed on any goods he carried; then, once he had this new document, he would be free to fly in the country visited.

It is in regard to the Customs that the greatest problem must be faced. Rules may be made, alighting points insisted upon, but how are aerial smugglers to be caught? It has been suggested that there should be a Customs’ police, provided with fast-flying machines; also that if a machine failed to descend when it ought, they should go in chase of it. But in days when, without once alighting, a flight of twenty-four hours will be easily accomplished, such officers might find themselves upon a wearisome pursuit; besides the probability that, either during the night or in a fog, they would be given the slip. Rendering easier aerial smuggling is the fact that, to discharge a small cargo of contraband over a given spot, the pilot need not alight. Fixing the package to a parachute, he could cast it free from his machine and continue swiftly upon his way—the parachute being secured with its burden by the confederates who were below. So difficult, in regard to aircraft, is this question of applying the Customs, that it has been argued air-borne traffic should—to save endless trouble and great expense—be allowed to go duty free.

A matter which is easier, and for which straightforward ruling may be framed, concerns the navigation of craft upon the airway. At present, with comparatively few machines, there is no great need for any code of rules: one pilot, should he sight another, can easily steer clear. But as the air becomes peopled, and there are streams of traffic between landing grounds, it will be very necessary to have a scheme of rules—rules, say, for meeting and passing, and for flying by day or night. What is suggested is that, with some modifications, the laws of the sea should be adapted to the air. Craft approaching each other should, it is held, bear away to the right, and never pass nearer than 300 metres (328 yards). When flying at night, a system of lights is recommended: white showing ahead, green to starboard, red to port, and another white light astern. Just before alighting when travelling by day, it is suggested that a pilot should show a red triangular flag; or, at night-time, wave a white light. When flying in daylight, and finding himself in distress, it is advised that a pilot should show a red triangular flag, and at the same time suspend from his machine two black balls, hung one above another; or, in the same circumstances at night-time, wave a white lamp and extinguish his side lights. The reason, in such a case, for extinguishing the side lights would be so as to show to other pilots only one lamp—the white one. This single white light will be the night signal of an ordinary balloon, and it will be the rule for all power-driven craft to make way for it, and an aeroplane or an airship, say when its machinery has broken down, being in the same position as a free balloon, will wave this white-light signal so as to warn other pilots to keep clear.

By degrees, as air-traffic grows, new laws and regulations will need to be applied. But at present, save for restrictions such as have been cited, an aerial tourist wings unfettered flight. The motorist has a speed limit of 20 miles; but the airman, 3000 feet aloft, has none; and, save for certain areas out of bounds, the sky is free wherever he may fly. Presently, however, the law must have its say, and air transit will be regulated as is the traffic of the land or sea. Already, in fact, our Home Office, after consulting experts, has its scheme of rules on paper; but these will not be enforced till the need comes.