Summary

Herbert Strang King of the Air; Or, To Morocco on an Aeroplane

Who’s Oliphant? Am I on my head or my heels?”
“Oh, I forgot you didn’t know,” said Tom with a smile. “Your new stoker was Oliphant in disguise. You see, Byles, your late stoker, had to remain at home and attend to his sick mother.”
“No more sick than I am!” declared Mr. Greatorex. “Don’t believe he had a mother! M’Cracken, indeed! I’ll M’Cracken him! I hope his father will get him well thrashed when he goes back to school.”
“He’s rather big for that, don’t you think?”
“The bigger the better! I never heard of such a thing! The impudence of it! And taking us all in so!
Source: Gutenberg

Herbert Strang King of the Air; Or, To Morocco on an Aeroplane

Tom at once reduced speed, shouting to Oliphant to adjust the planes for descent.
“Zink! Zink vat you do!” cried Schwab, now almost frantic. “Zey vill have us! Ze Mohrs vill cut our zroats! Vy—vy—vy——”
Tom paid no heed; Oliphant muttered under his breath. They were sinking towards a ravine through which a watercourse ran to the sea. The engine, its parts grinding and tearing with a hideous scrunching sound, was shooting out flames, to the accompaniment of detonations like those of a Maxim gun.
Source: Gutenberg

Herbert Strang King of the Air; Or, To Morocco on an Aeroplane

He could hardly believe it, for the village was small; they could scarcely escape detection; and the sheikh’s ingenuity in punishments was notorious even in Morocco, where torture is a fine art.
With instinctive caution Ahmed closed the wicket, leaving only a slit just wide enough for him to peep through. In a few moments he heard the slight rustle of the strangers’ garments, and saw their dark forms clearly outlined against the moonlight. They had come under the colonnade and halted within two or three yards of him, behind one of the pillars.
Source: Gutenberg

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