Another half-hour passed in acute suspense, Three times the anxious crew heard the terrifying sound of an aerial propeller. Somewhere in the darkness the British hornets were up and searching for their lurking foe—so far without success unless the moral effect be taken into consideration.
Presently the Zeppelin drifted beyond the glare of the fixed searchlights, but not until another twenty minutes had passed did von Loringhoven give orders for the engines to be restarted. At that terrific altitude the noise was considerably diminished in volume. Instead of the explosions of the motors resembling a succession of rifle-shots the sounds were like those of a whip being cracked, yet as the airship descended steadily to a height of five thousand feet the noise resumed its normal and distracting violence.
The spy sat down again. His torpor was returning. The sudden change of altitude had resulted in a steady flow of blood from his nose, while his ear-drums throbbed until they seemed on the point of bursting. At that moment he felt that he would not have minded had the airship been blown to atoms.
But the next instant his lassitude vanished, as the loud pop-pop-pop of two of her machine-guns roused him from his stupor. The weapon on the starboard side was trained as far as possible abaft the beam and was pumping out nickel into the darkness.
Craning his neck over the shoulders of the men serving the belt-ammunition von Eitelwurmer saw a sight that caused his agonies of mind to return with redoubled violence.
Just visible against the loom of the starlit sky was a huge biplane that, climbing steeply, seemed to be steadily overhauling the airship. Serenely unmindful of the hail of bullets aimed at her the seaplane held on with the obvious intention of getting astride her prey.
Mingled with the detonations of the machine-guns were the clanging of telephone bells, the clank of machinery and the excited voices of the crew. Then with a jerk that threw the spy violently against the after bulkhead the Zeppelin leapt skywards. Simultaneously dense volumes of black smoke eddied in through the open windows.
Sprawling in the intense darkness upon the ice-encrusted floor of the gondola the spy vainly strove to shriek, but only a gurgled sound came from his lips. He had not the slightest doubt but that the airship was on fire and on the point of crashing to her doom.
Hearing the stifled cry, for again the motors were stopped, one of the crew gripped him roughly by the arm, and set him on his feet.
"Silence!" he hissed. "A noise like that may betray us."
A seemingly interminable interval followed. The Zeppelin, floating motionless in a dense and opaque bank of clouds, was endeavouring to evade her comparatively small but highly dangerous antagonist, the loud buzzing of whose engine could be distinguished with all too forcible certainty.
With every light switched off the crew of the unwieldy gas-bag waited in breathless suspense, knowing that at any moment a bomb might explode with annihilating result in the midst of the vast store of highly inflammable hydrogen above their heads.
For how long this state of almost unbearable suspense and nerve-racking tension lasted von Eitelwurmer had not the slightest idea. In Cimmerian darkness he sat, shivering with cold and fear, his eyes fixed upon the motionless form of one of the machine-gunners who, leaning out of one of the open apertures, was striving to locate the presence of the unseen but audible British seaplane.
Every time that the drone of the biplane's engine rose to a crescendo the spy's finger-nails cut into the palms of his benumbed hands. Vaguely he wondered what the end would be: whether the intense cold would give place to violent heat as the Zeppelin, a mass of flames, crashed headlong, or whether in the absence of an explosion the agony would be prolonged until the gondola, pinned down by the weight of the shattered framework of the gas-bag, would plunge beneath the waves and cause him to drown like a rat in a trap. He gave no thought to his companions. It was he that mattered. He was in peril. The rest—well, that was their affair. They had undertaken the raid and its attendant risk to themselves. It seemed hard that he—an involuntary passenger—should be faced with the immediate prospect of being burnt to a cinder in mid-air or stifled in the icy waters of the North Sea.
The whirr of the seaplane's propeller increased in volume, more than at any previous time during the Zeppelin's sojourn in the clouds.
Suddenly the machine-gunner uttered an exclamation and nudged his companion. A succession of blinding flashes and the rapid rattle of the automatic weapon dazzled the eyes and dulled the hearing of the demoralised spy. Yet, impelled by an unseen force, von Eitelwurmer raised himself and peered out of the scuttle.
The sight that met his eye was enough to appal a man of high moral and physical fibre, let alone the nerve-stricken spy; for, apparently heading straight for the Zeppelin and with her planes distinctly visible in the flashes of the machine-gun, was the avenging British seaplane. With a wild, unearthly shriek von Eitelwurmer threw up his arms and fell unconscious upon the floor of the gondola.
SIEGFRIED VON EITELWURMER opened his eyes. His first thoughts were those of curious wonderment. It seemed remarkable, almost disappointing, that he found himself still alive.
More, he was still on board the airship, but his surroundings were different. The intense darkness had given place to light—not artificial luminosity of electric agency but the welcome light of day. His quarters had been changed. During his period of unconsciousness he had been taken along the narrow cat-walk (perhaps it was well for him that he had no recollection of that perilous passage along the V-shaped gangway) and had been placed in the centre gondola.
This move had been made at Ober-leutnant von Loringhoven's orders. During the nerve-racking journey over the sea-frontier of England the Hun commander had given scant thought to the comfort of his guest, but with immediate prospects of a safe return, he had recalled the advisability of giving the Kaiser's emissary those honours that his position albeit a despised civil one demanded.
"Are you feeling better now?" enquired von Loringhoven.
The spy sat up and passed a hand over his forehead.
"Where are we now?" he asked, ignoring the ober-leutnant's question.
"In sight of German soil," was the reply. "Yonder can be discerned our incomparable island fortress of Heligoland. No, we do not descend there, nor at Tondern or Borkum. Unfortunately that dare-devil of an Englishman has done us some damage, so we go on to the repairing sheds at Kyritz—they, fortunately, are beyond reach of hostile aircraft. At least, so I hope, but there is no telling what these English seaplanes will do next."
With von Loringhoven's reassurances bringing comfort to his tortured mind the spy's mercurial spirits rose. Yet not without a shudder he recalled his last conscious moment in the horrors of the pitch-black cramped interior of the after gondola.
"Himmel!" he exclaimed. "That was a nightmare. I little thought to be alive, and now I am tempted to shout 'Hoch! Hoch!' at the top of my voice."
"The bracing upper air," commented the ober-leutnant. "It is superb for raising one's spirits. Yes, it was an anxious time. I admit it. For the moment I thought that the cursed seaplane was going to hurl herself straight through the envelope. It is a thing that these mad Englishmen would do. I know them."
Von Eitelwurmer nodded in silent accord.
"But," continued the commander, "it was otherwise. Possibly our fire distracted the pilot, or he may have changed his mind at the last moment. Yet it was so close that I doubt whether there was anything to spare between the tip of one of his planes and the underside of the rear gondola. To me, looking aft, it seemed the narrowest shave possible. However, she missed us, and I immediately gave orders for the motors to be restarted. Heaven be praised, we never saw that seaplane again."
"And the damage?" enquired von Eitelwurmer.
"Not enough to prevent us continuing the voyage," replied von Loringhoven. "Two of the after ballonets are perforated too badly to be patched. A couple of my men succeeded in plugging the holes with the special preparation we use in such contingencies. You will observe that this floor inclines considerably in spite of the redistribution of ballast. We are down by the stern. Well, what is it?" he asked curtly as Unter-leutnant Klick entered the compartment.
"A wireless has just been received, sir," replied Klick, saluting his superior. "It appears that two of our airships have failed to return."
"Donner wetter!Two out of twelve!" exclaimed von Loringhoven furiously. "This is serious. But it might have been worse," he muttered in an undertone, as he glanced at the drooping end of the large envelope.
The spy went to one of the windows. The air was still sharp but mild in comparison to the piercing cold of the night. Already the sun was well above the horizon. Two thousand feet or less beneath the airship—for on approaching land the Zeppelin had descended considerably—could be discerned with remarkable clearness the green grass and red sandstone of the island of Heligoland with a strand of white sand adjoining one face of the cliffs. A short distance beyond was the flat, semi-artificial island of Sandinsel, with its batteries, concealed when viewed from the sea, standing conspicuously against the dunes.
Still further away were the flat, receding shores bordering the estuary of the Elbe, but vainly the spy looked for any signs of the vaunted High Seas Fleet. Even the well protected triangular expanse of water was desolate of shipping, save for a few small craft engaged either in laying additional mines or conveying stores to the island fortress.
At that height the varying depths of the sea could be noted owing to the changing colour of the water—not that that fact interested von Eitelwurmer in the slightest. He was a landsman out and out. He was content to leave the difficult task of wresting the trident from Britannia's grasp to others. The matter did not concern him. He specialised in the arts and intrigues of espionage.
Von Loringhoven was cast in a different mould. Although his present energies were centred upon the air service he was at heart a seaman. He, too, was examining the expanse of sea, but with the skill of a practised navigator.
"Look!" he exclaimed, pointing to a small, indistinct object from which emanated two ever-diverging lines of ruffled water. "Do you know what that is? Here, take these binoculars and look. Now, perhaps, you see what I mean?"
The spy brought the glasses to bear.
"A fish, I suppose," he remarked.
"A fish of sorts," added the ober-leutnant. "One's sense of proportion is deceived at this height. It is an unterseeboot. I do not fancy it is ours, otherwise why should she keep submerged when close to our territorial water?"
He lifted the receiver of the telephone.
"Wireless cabin. Report to the commandant of Heligoland that there is a submarine in the south channel. Ask if it is one of our unterseebooten."
In a few minutes came the reply.
"No German submarine operating sub merged off the fortress. Can you attack?"
"No, I cannot," declared von Loringhoven bluntly, directing his remarks to his companion. "She's a British submarine. Those fellows nose their way everywhere. She, evidently, is inside the outer minefield. And they want me, crippled as this airship is, to attack. It is unreasonable; besides, the wind is increasing in strength and we have yet to make a landing."
So, giving by wireless the bearings of the daring submarine, von Loringhoven "carried on" in the knowledge that the dangers of this flight were by no means over. Already the wind was blowing with a velocity of thirty miles an hour—a rate that would make landing a difficult matter—and, what is more, its strength was hourly increasing.
At ten in the morning the Zeppelin came in sight of the sheds at Kyritz, a town in the province of Brandenburg and roughly sixty miles north-west of Berlin. This was the base for airships that had sustained damage likely to take a considerable time to repair. The German authorities, profiting by the lessons of the British air raids on Friedrichshaven and other Zeppelin stations within range of aeroplanes operating either from the sea or from the hostile frontiers, had taken the precaution to remove the repair depots well inland. In such places as Borkum there were Zeppelins in commission ready for making flights to the British Isles, but at the first intimation of a raid upon the airship sheds the mammoth gas-bags would fly inland until the danger was past. In the case of a Zeppelin undergoing extensive repairs such a course would be impossible; hence the establishment of the base at Kyritz.
Turning head to wind the crippled Zeppelin descended slowly and cautiously towards a field surrounding the three large sheds. The sheds themselves were marvels of scientific ingenuity. For one thing they were easily collapsible. By means of mechanical appliances the roof could be parted lengthways and each section allowed to fold against the walls. The walls could then be lowered until the whole structure lay flat on the ground. The fabric, composed of steel sheeting on girders of the same material, was covered with stucco that strongly resembled the surrounding ground. Viewed from a height there would be great difficulty in distinguishing between the collapsible sheds and the adjoining land. The buildings, of course, could only be lowered when not tenanted by airships, but such was the deliberate thoroughness of the Huns that they had to provide for this contingency in the possible yet improbable event of a British aircraft raid.
Another feature of the sheds was the fact that each was built upon a gigantic turn-table, so as to enable the openings to turn away from the prevailing wind and thus facilitate landing operations; while by a system of disc signals the commander of the returning Zeppelin was informed of the direction and strength of the breeze.
Yet, in spite of these precautions, the landing operations were fraught with danger, especially in the present case.
As the crippled airship approached the shed, ropes were lowered from bow and stern. These were seized by swarms of trained air-mechanics, and as gently as possible the huge envelope was brought upon an even keel. All the while the propellers kept revolving in order to enable her to counteract the force of the head wind.
Then other ropes were lowered from the 'midship portion of the Zeppelin while simultaneously gas was exhausted from some of the ballonets to neutralise her buoyancy.
All that seemingly remained was to shut off the motors and drag the mammoth into its lair.
Suddenly a strong gust of wind, eddying past the shed, struck the bow of the Zeppelin. The men holding the bow ropes were thrown in a struggling heap of humanity upon the grass. In an instant the whole of the for'ard portion of the Zeppelin reared itself in the air. The aluminium longitudinal girders were not proof against the unequal strain, and with incredible rapidity the frail fabric buckled.
"Jump!" shouted von Loringhoven, his voice barely audible above the excited yells of the men and the rending of metal.
Setting the example the commander dropped from the cat-walk, followed by Unter-leutnant Klick and most of the crew. A few, imprisoned in the foremost gondola, were crushed under the ruins of the girders.
For a moment the spy hesitated to follow the example of his companions in peril. Taking his courage in his hands, he lowered himself over the latticed sides of the gangway. There he hung until half stupefied by the fumes of the escaping hydrogen; then, relaxing his hold he dropped, landing in a most undignified manner upon the equally ruffled von Loringhoven as he crawled from under the wreckage.
In five minutes nothing remained of the raider but a mass of gaunt and twisted girders from which fluttered the remains of the envelope in the grip of the now howling wind.
Two hours later, Siegfried von Eitelwurmer found himself in the presence of the Director of Aeronautical Intelligence in the official quarters of the Air Department—a pretentious building in the Wilhelmstrasse at Berlin.
With him were Ober-leutnant von Loringhoven and half a dozen commanders of the Zeppelin Squadron that had just carried out the raid over the British Isles. The task of reporting upon the raid was about to commence. Already the British communiqué had been received, and it was now considered advisable to issue a statement for the benefit of the German people.
The only person not present was Otto von Lohr, the commander of the air squadron, and until he put in an appearance the business could not be started.
A telephone bell rang. A uniformed secretary took up the receiver.
"Yes, Herr Schneider, he is here," he replied. "I will inform him of your request."
Replacing the instrument the secretary crossed the room and addressed the spy.
"Herr Kapitan-leutnant Schneider wishes to see you, Herr von Eitelwurmer," he announced obsequiously.
"Very good," replied the spy. "Inform me when the conference begins."
Kapitan-leutnant Schneider, the German Naval Censor-in-Chief, was a bald-headed, loose-lipped man of past middle age. He looked, and was, a typical Prussian, subserviently polite to his superiors and pointedly arrogant to those who were not. Von Eitelwurmer belonged to the former category, for although not of the military caste, he enjoyed the confidence of the Emperor. That in itself was sufficient to cause Kapitan-leutnant Schneider to squirm like an eel. It was his way of showing his pleasure at his visitor's presence.
"I wish to ask you, von Eitelwurmer," he remarked after the preliminary courtesies were exchanged, "concerning the effect of our reports—my work, you understand—upon the English people. You, living as an Englishman, ought to be in a position to inform me."
"My private opinion, or my official one?" enquired the spy bluntly.
The Censor shut one eye solemnly.
"Your private opinion," he said.
"The German communiqués seem to be a source of amusement to the English," began von Eitelwurmer in the same bold tone, for not being under the kapitan-leutnant's jurisdiction and having an old grievance against him he could afford to "rub it in." "In fact, the censorship in both countries is one of the chief weapons of their antagonists. In England bad news that we already know of is suppressed, and consequently all sorts of disquieting rumours get around. The same holds good in the Fatherland. It is like sitting upon the safety valve of a boiler: sooner or later——"
"Yes, yes," interrupted Schneider. "But as far as we Germans are concerned it matters little. If the people grow restive, if their hunger—and hunger amongst the lower classes is acute—goads them to attempted violence the danger ends there. Unlike the English we have organised the nation. Every man, woman and child realises his or her duty is to obey, otherwise we might see the business of Louvain enacted upon German soil."
"The English are of a different temperament," remarked the spy. "Reverses do not seem to damp their spirits. They have a firm faith that in spite of blunders everything will come out right for them at the finish. It is the fatalism based upon centuries of history. Why their government does not take them into its confidence puzzles me."
The Censor shrugged his shoulders.
"I do not believe in governments of that description," he said. "Give me our all powerful machinery—the War Council. No government yet won a war, but many a government has lost one. Now tell me——"
A discreet tap upon the door interrupted the official's words.
"Enter!" he bellowed.
A messenger crept stealthily into the room. By his manner it seemed evident that he expected to have a book hurled at his head. It was one of the kapitan-leutnant's usualplaisanteries, but on this occasion von Eitelwurmer acted as a moral shield.
The Censor took the proffered paper, read it and burst into a roar of laughter.
"Wait a moment, Herr von Eitelwurmer," he said when his mirth had subsided. "The conference won't start for some time. There's a fellow wanting an audience—an author, curse him! I'll let the press and their parasites depending upon it know that there is a censorship. This fellow wrote a book:With von Scheer off Jutlandhe called it. Since we must do something to justify our existence I smashed it. The fellow had no influence, so what matters? And now, I suppose, he's kicking. Send him in, you thick-headed numbskull; send him in."
The author of the banned book entered the room. He was of short stature, being barely five feet two in height, inclined to corpulence, and very white-faced. His heavy, bristling, up-turned moustache contrasted incongruously with his small beady eyes that peered through a large pair of spectacles of enormous magnifying powers.
For quite two minutes Kapitan-leutnant Schneider hurled a torrent of abuse at the head of his caller, punctuating every sentence with furious oaths. Yet, somewhat to the Censor's surprise, the little man showed no signs of quailing under the onslaught.
"Might I ask what there is in the book to which you take exception?" he asked.
"The whole of it," thundered the despot.
"Could not certain portions be revised?"
"No; I object to it in its entirety."
"Then, since the story is based upon Admiral von Scheer's report you object to the official dispatch?"
For a moment the Press Censor was taken aback. It never entered into his head that this meek and mild man could or would put a poser like this.
"No; I won't say that," replied Schneider. "But either you are a perverter of the truth or you know too much. The work has had the highest Admiralty consideration, and, as you ought to know, censorship has only one object in view, namely, the public interest. If you are ordered to say that black is white you must say it. You haven't, and you must abide by the consequences."
"One moment," interposed the still unruffled man. "Can you give me one solitary instance of what you object to in the book?"
The kapitan-leutnant puckered his shaggy eyebrows.
"No, I cannot," he replied, with considerable mildness. "I have forgotten all about it."
"And that is what you term the highest Admiralty consideration," added the author cuttingly. "Very good; I will not trouble you further at present, except to show you this: a commendation from no less a personage than Admiral von Tirpitz."
"Himmel!" gasped the astonished official. "Why did you not tell me this before?"
"Because I had not the chance," replied the caller gathering up his papers. "Good afternoon."
"You are perhaps sorry I waited?" remarked von Eitelwurmer, when the two were again alone.
Schneider frowned.
"If the fool had only made out that we had won a great victory all would have been well," he replied. "The Press and its satellites——"
"The Conference has started, Herr von Eitelwurmer," announced the secretary. "I could not inform you before as the Kapitan-leutnant was engaged."
The spy returned to the council-room. Seated at a long table were the Zeppelin commanders. As each made his report the statement was taken down by an official shorthand writer, while the aviators were subjected to a stiff examination by the Director of Intelligence.
Some were most emphatic in their statements. They knew exactly where they had been; others were not so sure, but believed that they had been to such and such a town; others, somewhat indiscreetly but honestly, confessed that they had lost their bearings. All were agreed, however, that the Yorkshire towns of Brigborough and Broadbeck had been missed by the raiding aircraft.
"It seems pretty certain that the geography of the English authorities is at fault," commented the Director. "They report that our Zeppelins visited a North Midland county—that referred to your part of the business, von Loringhoven; I always thought that Lancashire was one of the six northern counties of England: let us hope that some day it will be one of a German dependency. However, we'll issue a report that our airships bombed Brigborough and Broadbeck. Then these English will think that you do not know where you have been, and that is exactly what we want them to think. Now, von Papen, draw up a suitable report for home consumption. In these strenuous times we must satisfy the public demands. It will keep the common people quiet for a time, and, if theydofind out, there may then be something good to detract their attention."
The spy smiled grimly. He recalled a saying quoted by a German officer to his captor: "We Germans can never be gentlemen—you English will always be fools." The first part held good, but as for the second, his residence in Great Britain had taught him that behind the apathy of the British nation there was Something—a Something that, when aroused, would form more than a match for the cunning and brutality of his fellow countrymen. Reluctantly he had to admit that.
"Why do you smile?" asked the Director, fixing von Eitelwurmer with his eye.
"I was thinking," replied the spy. "Thinking of how I can get back to England. My good work there is not yet completed."
"Those twenty thousand marks, hein?" enquired the president, and the rest of the assembly laughed uproariously at the director's jest.
"WHY did I leave my comfortable bunk and try my hand at fishing at night upon the wild North Sea?" enquired Lieutenant Fuller as he withdrew his benumbed hands from his airman's gauntlets and fumbled ineffectually for his electric torch. "Dash it all, man! What are you fiddling about with?"
"Only that releasing lever," replied Kirkwood from the depths of the fuselage. "That confounded Zep! If only the blessed thing hadn't jibbed I'd have strafed her, sure as fate."
"Chuck it!" ordered Fuller. "Let the beastly thing alone, or you may drop a plum. This child doesn't want to be hoist with his own petard. Well, thank goodness we're afloat. That's some consolation. Where the hooligan Harry is that confounded torch?"
"Take mine," said the A.P. passing for'ard the desired article. "Say, old man, we appear to be rolling more to starboard than to t'other side. Hope the float isn't leaking."
Fuller leant over the side. It was too dark to discern anything. Prudence forbade him to flash the torch upon the invisible support—a support so light and frail that the wonder of it all was that it hadn't given way under the force of the impact with the waves.
The crippled seaplane was tossing and rolling under the combined action of the short crested waves and the stiff breeze. It wanted about two hours to daylight. Meanwhile every minute saw the amphibious craft drifting further and further from shore.
There were no signs of the "Hippodrome." Possibly the seaplane carrier had resumed her voyage, in the supposition that the missing hornet had made one of the fishing harbours on the Yorkshire coast. The absence of any wireless call rather knocked that theory on the head. On the other hand the "Hippodrome" could not, without great risk of being submarined, since she was unaccompanied by destroyers or patrol-boats, steam seaward on an apparent wild-goose chase for her errant child.
"She's holding, I fancy," said Fuller referring to the suspected float. "Anyhow we've kept afloat so far and there's no reason why we shouldn't do so until I tackle this most refractory motor."
Making cautious use of the flash lamp the pilot minutely examined the complicated mechanism. It was not long before the mischief was discovered. Not only was the petrol-tank completely perforated by three shrapnel bullets, but the pipe leading from it to the carburetter had been cut clean through. That accounted for the engine running for some seconds before coming to a stop. Until the last of the petrol in the carburetter had been drawn into the cylinders firing was still taking place.
Further examination revealed the fact that, the motor was otherwise undamaged, although, judging by the holes in the fuselage and through the planes, it seemed wonderful that pilot and observer had escaped being hit.
"Can I bear a hand?" enquired Kirkwood.
"No, thanks," was the reply. "Close enough quarters as it is. We should only be tumbling over one another."
By the aid of a piece of flexible tubing lined with indiarubber the broken portions of the petrol pipe were temporarily reunited. The next step was to plug the holes in the tank. This task was performed by means of a metal instrument consisting of a metal rod of about a third of an inch in diameter and four inches in length. Two thirds of the length was threaded and fitted with a "butterfly" nut in front of which was a cylindrical plug of guttapercha faced with indiarubber. At the other extremity was a swivelled cross-bar of about an inch in length and so arranged that it could lie in a straight line with the rod.
This end Fuller inserted in one of the perforations in the side of the tank. Then, giving the rod half a turn, he allowed the swivel bar to fall into a position at right angles to the rod. It was then impossible to withdraw the latter owing to the cross-piece engaging on the inner side of the tank.
The flight-lieutenant's next move was to screw the pliable plug hard against the perforated metal by means of the "butterfly" nut, and by so doing hole No.1 was repaired—the first of six. While Fuller was engaged upon the work of making good defects Kirkwood, his mind still uneasy on the subject of the float, lowered himself over the side.
Gaining the upper side of the float he felt along it with his hand. As he did so a wave swept the frail buoyant structure.
"By Jove!" he exclaimed. "This is a treat. The water is quite warm."
Compared with the intense coldness of the upper air the sea, at this time of the year, was indeed tepid. The contrasted temperature acted like balm to his numbed hands. He revelled in the comfort.
While thus engaged the A.P. discerned a large object looming through the darkness—a cylinder nearly a yard in diameter. It was floating with very little of its bulk showing above the surface, and, owing to the comparatively rapid drift of the seaplane, it appeared to be moving steadily through the water and bearing straight down upon the float.
For a brief instant Kirkwood remained stock still in his recumbent position, unable to raise a finger or utter a cry. The object was a floating mine.
He could discern the horns with remarkable clearness, for the thing seemed surrounded by an aura of phosphorescent light. One blow from the underside of the float upon those delicately adjusted projections with which the mine simply bristled would result in utter annihilation.
Kirkwood's mind was steeled to the dangers of a ten or fifteen thousand feet fall through space; but this, to him, unusual danger literally took the wind out of his sails.
Then, like a flash, the reaction set in. The will to cope with sudden perils asserted itself. A plan, unpretentious in all its details, formulated in his active brain.
Throwing himself flat upon the float and grasping one of the supports with his left hand, the A.P. hung as far in front as he possibly could without losing his balance. His outstretched hand came in deliberate contact with the drifting horror. The smooth, slimy surface—for the mine had evidently been in the water for some time—offered no resistance, and he thrust until his fingers "brought up" against one of the horns.
How far short of the minimum pressure required to snap the brittle projection and allow the chemicals contained therein to ignite Kirkwood was never to know. He was just aware that either the seaplane or the mine was swinging clear—perhaps it was a mutual "get out of my way" affair.
Scraping the for'ard outer corner of the float by a bare six inches the infernal contrivance, fended off by the A.P.'s outstretched hand, glided past, until with a sigh of relief the observer watched it disappear in the darkness.
For quite a minute he hung on, his heart beating like a piston, his eyes peering through the blackness ahead. Floating mines, he knew, were generally in considerable numbers. The fact that one peril had been averted was no guarantee that all danger from these jettisoned cylinders of potential death was over.
"Where the Christopher Columbus are you, old bird?" exclaimed Fuller, who, pausing in his work, had missed the rest of the "crew." "What, down on that float? What's wrong now?"
"We nearly bumped into a mine," reported the A.P. "The beastly thing was within six inches of my nose."
"A miss is as good as a mile," remarked the pilot nonchalantly. "If the thing had gone up six inches or six feet wouldn't have made any difference. They wouldn't have found either of us, and there wouldn't be enough of the pair of us to make a satisfying meal for a solitary North Sea herring. Look here. Up with you and give me a hand at filling the tank. I want to test my handiwork."
By the time the repairs were completed to the satisfaction of all hands, grey dawn was breaking over the wild North Sea. As far as the eye could penetrate the haze that hung about in detached patches the expanse of water was unbroken. Not a sail of any description was in sight and the beetling cliffs of the Yorkshire coast had long since dipped beneath the horizon.
"Fill her right up now," continued the pilot, indicating the repaired tank. "It's lucky we had so many spare tins of stuff on board. We'll mop up most of the petrol during the plug home against the wind, I reckon."
Fuller, deep in final adjustments, and Kirkwood hard at work emptying the contents of the petrol-cans into the tank, were unaware of the new menace that threatened them, until a huge grey shape loomed up within fifty yards to windward of the seaplane.
The shape was a German submarine mine-layer, She was running awash, while on the short, narrow platform in the wake of her conning-tower stood a couple of officers and a half a dozen seamen.
"You vos surrender make!" shouted one of the Germans.
"I'll see you to blazes first!" retorted Fuller as he frantically manipulated the starting mechanism.
For once the accurately-timed engine failed to respond to the master-hand. A mutinous back-fire was the only result. Fuller tried again but ineffectually.
The Hun submarine then thought it time to butt in. This she did most neatly but none the less completely by running her nose into the resistless structure of the jibbing seaplane. Her rate of speed was but three or four knots, but that was enough. Amidst the rending of struts, the crashing of the shattered floats and the harp-like twang of severed tension-wires the luckless 445B turned absolutely over and disappeared beneath the waves, leaving pilot and observer struggling in the water.
"Dash it all!" soliloquised Fuller as he struck out for the submarine. "This is the second time the Huns have nabbed me. I'll bet there'll be a third. Just my rotten luck. Come on, old bird, half a dozen more strokes. They are going to heave us out of the ditch."
"I SAY, pater."
"Eh?" ejaculated Peter Barcroft without looking up from his work, which happened to be revising a proof.
"I saw Betty Deringhame last night. I forgot to tell you," began Billy as a "preliminary canter" to the recital of his raid-night adventure.
"More fool you," grumbled his parent.
"I beg your pardon——" began the flight-sub, rather taken aback not by his sire's brusqueness, for Barcroft Senior when engaged in the non-creative work of proof-reading was like a bear with a sore head, but by the off-hand manner in which he had received the announcement of the girl's name.
"Look here!" exclaimed Peter, throwing down his pen and incidentally bespattering with ink the long, narrow sheet of printed matter. "Why on earth you want me to preach you a homily on the evils of betting——"
"Betting?" interrupted Billy. "I said nothing about betting. What I said was: 'I—saw—Betty—Deringhame—last—night.'"
Peter swung round in his revolving chair, and raised his eyebrows in mild surprise.
"Did you?" he asked. "My mistake, but why did you murmur that most interesting news into my deaf ear? What's she doing in this part?"
Billy duly reported the state of affairs.
"Jolly hard lines on the girl and her mother, too," was his parent's verdict. "Of course women of all classes are making munitions now, and all praise to them for doing it. I am not referring to that, but to the fact that Mrs. Deringhame has had a come-down in life. Did you ever hear how it occurred?"
"No," replied the young officer. "You see, I really didn't like to ask Betty, and she's too jolly brave to whine over her troubles."
"Sit down and fill your pipe," continued Barcroft Senior. "No matches? Hang it, there were three or four boxes on my desk this morning. Here, never mind, use a spill."
Billy laid a restraining hand upon his father's arm.
"Don't use your precious proofs, pater," he observed.
"Bless my soul! You were only just in time, my boy. Another second and that printed stuff would have been mingling in the form of smoke with the Lancashire atmosphere. Ah, yes; we were discussing the Deringhames. The same old tale, Billy: an inexperienced woman and a rascally lawyer. Not that all lawyers are rascals, you understand, but the profession contains a high percentage of rogues who, but for their knowledge of the law and of how far to go without overstepping the lawyer made laws of the land, would be doing time. This chap was a cute one. He persuaded Mrs. Deringhame to invest most of her capital in certain concerns of which he was a sort of sleeping partner. In five years he had literally done her out of a cool £ 6,000; and then, pretending to set matters right, he prevailed upon her to mortgage her house at Alderdene. Nominally he was her agent; in reality he was agent for the mortgagee, who was himself. You see the move?"
"Then, when war broke out, he drew in the mortgage, bringing an excuse that tightness of money necessitated the step. Mrs. Deringhame was unable at short notice to meet the demand. In vain she pleaded for time. Her last remnant of capital vanished into the rogue's clutches."
"The rotter!" ejaculated Billy indignantly. "And what is the bounder's name. Do you happen to know?"
"Yes," replied Mr. Barcroft. "Let me see—yes I have it: Antonius Grabb, of the firm of Grabb and Gott, of Ely Place."
"By Jupiter!" muttered Billy.
Mr. Barcroft raised his eyebrows enquiringly, but his son made no further audible comment. He had made the unpleasing discovery that the man who had wronged Betty and her mother was Bobby Kirkwood's uncle, and when, in the natural course of events the aforementioned uncle died, the A.P., should he be still surviving, would benefit considerably under the will of Antonius Grabb.
"By the bye," said Peter abruptly changing the subject. "Seen anything of Entwistle?"
"Met him coming from the bath-room half an hour ago; he was limping a good deal," replied Billy. "I don't suppose it will be long before he's down."
"I've a job for you, my boy," continued Peter. "They've just telephoned through to say that Entwistle's car won't be able to fetch him. My perambulating box of tricks and petrol is out of action somewhere in the hills. So I want you to drive our guest in the trap to Barborough. I'd go myself if it weren't for these confounded proofs. That idiot of a comp, will persist in printing 'stem' for 'stern.' The drive will do you good—blow some of last night's cobwebs away."
"Steady, pater," protested Billy with a hearty laugh. "I am no hand at driving horseflesh. Give me something in the motor line and I'm all there."
"You'll be all right with Butterfly," declared Barcroft Senior. "She's the steadiest-footed quadruped that ever stepped it out in shafts. A perfect gem, and the envy of the countryside."
He spoke with conviction, but the good character bestowed upon the animal was based simply upon hearsay. "Butterfly" was a new importation, having joined the establishment of Ladybird Fold only a week previously, and during that period she had either rusticated in the adjoining meadow or in her stable.
The flight-sub walked across the study to the open window. Without, hill and dale were bathed in the autumnal sunlight, and, having reviled the neighbourhood of Tarleigh in the darkness of the previous night, Billy felt compelled to render ample reparation to its charms as revealed by the light of day.
For miles there was a succession of hills and valleys, until the vista was terminated by the frowning Pennines. The country was well wooded, except for the grassy moorlands and bare yet picturesque outlines of the pikes and fells. Here and there were signs of human habitation in the form of well-built stone cottages, while in some of the steeper valleys could be discerned the chimneys and roofs of various mills and bleaching works. Nor did these lofty "stacks" disfigure the landscape. They seemed to harmonise with nature. The only blot in the vista was perhaps the line of electric cables with which the Zeppelin's observation car had so nearly collided with disastrous result on the previous night.
In the middle distance a haze of smoke through which a regular forest of factory chimneys could be dimly discerned marked the position of Barborough. Distance had lent not exactly enchantment but a discreet contrast to the rural outlook, and while taking in the panoramic effect with its attendant peacefulness Billy Barcroft could hardly realise that eight hours previously a cowardly night-raider had been hurling down her death-dealing missiles upon this portion of Britannia's sea-girt domain.
"Right-o, pater!" he exclaimed. "I'll risk it."
He spoke feelingly. The perils of his profession he regarded with equanimity. It was his choice, and he had no cause to regret it. But the idea of driving a quadruped of sorts along those steep roads and through the crowded streets of Barborough filled him with genuine apprehension.
"Hang it!" he soliloquised. "There's no cut-out on a gee-gee. I know how to stop an engine right enough, but a horse has a brain of its own and can be jolly erratic when it wants to. What on earth possessed the governor to go in for a quadruped when he has a rattling good car?"
Just at that moment the harmony of the morning was interrupted by the high-pitched voice of Mrs. Carter engaged in animated conversation with Mrs. Sarah Crumpet, the D.T.—otherwise Domestic Treasure—who "did" for Andrew Norton, Esquire.
Although the two ladies were at a side door that opened directly into the scullery their voices could be heard with astounding clearness.
"Eh! An' tha' found tha bed not slept upon?" she exclaimed. "Mr. Norton may ha' been called away a-purpose."
"Nay, that 'e wur not, Jane," declared Mrs. Crumpet. "I'm a-tellin' on ye, sitha'. Mr. Norton 'e meant to come back, for the whisky was on th' table."
"Methinks he looks to my employer for his nightcap," remarked Mrs. Carter with asperity.
"An' I was so overcome like," continued Sarah ignoring the insinuation, "that I simply 'ad to 'ave a drop-the first time I ever 'ad a chance up yonder."
"'As 'e paid thee thy brass?" enquired the sympathetic Mrs. Carter.
"Ay, that 'e did, thanks be. But it seems most strange-like, this business."
"I'll tell th' master," asserted Mrs. Carter as the other woman walked away. "An' sitha', if you're feelin' out o' sorts again, Mrs. Crumpet, now's your chance afore the bottle's locked up."
With this parting injunction the "help" of Ladybird Fold shut the door and made her way to the study.
"Yes, I know," said Mr. Barcroft when the Little Liver Pill had duly reported the absence of Mr. Norton. "He was here last night and left in a hurry before I returned; I'll stroll across in the course of the forenoon. Ah, good morning, Entwistle; how's that foot?"
"Better, thanks," replied his guest. "Gives me a bit of a twinge when I set it to ground. Well, what's the morning's news?"
"Papers not in yet, not that I expect any enlightenment on the subject of the raid in the Press report. There are all sorts of rumours flying about, as is to be expected. But it will be all right some day—when we tackle the business properly. These Zeps. will come once too often. It's a mystery to me that they haven't summed up the results and come to the conclusion that these haphazard raids aren't worth the candle."
"Unless it is to divert the attention of the German people from the Western Front," remarked Entwistle.
"Quite possible," agreed Peter. "Now to breakfast. I'm sorry your car couldn't come to fetch you—not that I want to lose you exactly, although I have a batch of proofs in hand," he added bluntly. "You understand? Billy will drive you into Barborough."
"And what do you think of the measures taken to combat the Zeppelin menace?" enquired Entwistle addressing himself to Billy. The flight-sub shook his head.
"I'm afraid I cannot venture an opinion," he replied. "Both branches of the Air Service are doing their level best—they cannot do more."
"You won't be able to draw Billy, Entwistle," added his parent with a laugh. "Even I cannot get him to talk shop."
"Pity some military men I know aren't like him," said the vet. "Nowadays it's either too much shop or too much official reticence. The middle path seems to have been lost sight of. But any more of the mystery of your friend Andrew Norton? I couldn't help hearing your housekeeper holding forth just now."
"Can't understand it," replied Barcroft Senior. "Why Norton should bolt out of my house and desert his own all night is a complete puzzle. I can only put forward the theory that the Zep. raid made him lose his mental balance—and he's a fellow with a steady head, I fancy. If he doesn't put in an appearance before lunch time I feel it is my duty to report the circumstances to that pillar of intelligence the Tarleigh police sergeant."
"And possibly get yourself arrested on suspicion," chuckled Entwistle. "Norton was last seen in this house, remember."
"It would be an experience that would afford practical knowledge as far as my work is concerned," decided Peter. "Nothing like real life to work into a plot, you know."
Breakfast over, Entwistle and the flight-sub went out into the garden for the time-honoured matutinal pipe until it was time for Peter's guest to take his departure.
"Come along, Billy," shouted his father. "Bear a hand at getting Butterfly harnessed." The flight-sub was in mufti. His uniform had been damaged beyond repair during his toil amidst the ruins of that devastated street in Barborough. A scar across his cheek and several livid weals on the back of his hands testified to his labours amongst the burning debris.
Somewhat proudly Peter threw open the doors of the combined coach-house and stable. Within was a small governess cart and a sleek and obviously overfed donkey.
"Allow me to introduce you to Butterfly," he announced. "Warranted to be quiet in harness and a thoroughly good trotter."
Billy said not a word. He had contemplated with considerable misgivings the imposed task of driving a spirited mare through a populous district; but those doubts were as naught compared with the prospect of piloting a humble "moke" through traffic in a strange town.
"Thank goodness I'm in mufti!" he soliloquised with a deep-drawn sigh. "'The condemned man walked firmly to the scaffold' sort of feeling. Well, here goes; no one is likely to know me in this show."
Putting the animal into the shafts was an evolution that required the utmost tact on the part of Barcroft Senior and much nautical skill on the part of his son. It was their first attempt in this direction.
"Get her this way while I hold the shafts," exclaimed Peter. "Gee up, old lady."
Butterfly obeyed and took up a position athwart the hawse of the craft, as Billy expressed it.
"Round with her," continued Barcroft Senior. "I can't hold these infernal shafts up all day."
Putting his shoulders to the donkey's hind quarters Billy succeeded in "slewing the boat's stern round."
"Easy astern!" he shouted in ringing nautical tones.
Surprised beyond measure, Butterfly turned her head to take stock of this unusual type of groom, with the result that the flight-sub's face received a good buffet from the animal's nose. Simultaneously the brass trappings of the harness rasped Peter's hand.
"Confound it!" he roared, relaxing his grasp and allowing one shaft to fall with a clatter upon the cobbles. "The brute's barked my knuckles."
Then, reasoning that the damage afforded a sufficient excuse to "knock off" his professional labours he held his peace on the nature of his injuries.
"Warranted quiet in harness," quoted Billy as his parent cautiously retrieved the shaft. "My word, pater, there's not much room between the dock-gates. Think she'll take it?"
"Ought to," replied Barcroft Senior dubiously. "Now, have another shot. I wish the brute had a reverse gear."
By dint of mingled coaxing and physical force Butterfly was backed between the shafts. Then both men regarded the result of their triumph with chastened looks.
"Strikes me we've missed this sling arrangement on the starboard side," remarked Billy. "That leather thing ought to be round the shaft. She'll have to forge ahead a bit."
"Right-o!" assented his parent. "Gee-up. Oh, dash it all! That's my toe this time."
For Butterfly, in "forging ahead" had brought her hind hoof heavily upon Peter's foot, which happened to be encased in a carpet slipper.
At length the evolutions arrived at a state that found the donkey in the shafts. Father and son stood back to admire their handiwork and to puzzle out the way to adjust the seemingly chaotic tangle of harness.
"Why not ask Entwistle?" suggested the flight-sub. "He's a vet. He ought to know how this gear is rove."
Mr. Barcroft shook his head. He did not like to admit defeat.
"Can't ask him to hobble out here with that sprained ankle of his," he said. "Unfortunately I'm not used to the job."
"So I should imagine, pater," added Billy pointedly. "Well, we've got to get on with the business. I'll make sure that everything's lashed up securely. That's the main point. If it isn't right it can't be helped."
The task of harnessing completed Butterfly was led out of the stable, an operation that nearly resulted in Peter being pinned against the door-post by one of the wheels.
"She's perfectly docile now she's in the trap," he decided as the donkey walked demurely round to the front of the house. "That's right, Entwistle. Another hour will see you safely home. Good-bye, don't forget to look me up at any time. Up you get, Billy."
"Thanks, I'm not having any at present," decided the flight-sub. "I'll lead her down the narrow lane until we get to the high-road. Now, then, my hearty; easy ahead once more."
Downhill the donkey walked sedately; Billy's confidence showed signs of returning as he led the sure-footed animal along the rough-surfaced track. Just as it joined the main road there was a short, steep rise.
"Jump in," exclaimed Entwistle; "she'll take it all right."
"I'll give her a chance," demurred the flight-sub. "My weight will make a difference. Now, then, old lady; show us what you can do."
Butterfly rose nobly to the occasion. So did the shafts, for the animal walked away leaving the governess-cart in a state of most unstable equilibrium. By dint of hanging on to one of the shafts Billy saved his companion from being deposited upon the ground, while Butterfly, having parted company with the trap, stopped and surveyed the antics of the still oscillating conveyance.
"Never knew a reef-knot to slip like that before," exclaimed Billy, regarding the trailing traces.
"It would be better if the traces were made fast in the orthodox manner, I fancy," suggested Entwistle, alighting from the cart and limping to the shafts. "There, that's the way—although it's not done navy fashion."
Along the main road Butterfly showed no signs of "speed-form." Downhill she walked slowly; uphill she plodded with even less haste, and since it was all either up or down progress was far from swift.
"I'll have to have another shave when we get to Barborough," remarked Billy with an emphasis on the "when." "I scraped at eight this morning, but at this rate I'll have cultivated a beard before Butterfly lands us at your place."
"The first mile," commented Entwistle, pointing to a milestone. "Twenty minutes fifteen seconds. Some record that."
A short distance beyond Blackberry Cross the donkey's manoeuvres began to cause Billy additional alarm. Without any apparent reason Butterfly would describe a semi-circle, keeping her eyes fixed upon something in the road.
"Starboard, you blighter!" roared the amateur driver, tugging at one of the reins. "You'll have us in the ditch in half a shake."
"Peculiar—very," remarked the vet.
"A very peculiar craft in all respects," added Billy. "She's not used to this style of yoke-line. Steady, you swab! You're swinging to port again."
"I've twigged it," announced, Entwistle. "She's jibbing at those manholes. They seem to irritate her. We'll have to be jolly careful when we get to the tram-lines or she'll try conclusions with a car. I tell you what: while you are in Barborough——"
"If we ever get there," muttered Billy.
"You ought to get that brute shod. She may do better on the metallic roads."
Two hours later Butterfly and party were in the thickest part of the traffic. To the flight-sub it was a sort of nightmare. Tram after tram had to be stopped to enable the erratic animal to pass, while a crowd of urchins (practically all the unwashed of Barborough, Billy thought) tailed on to the "Dead March in Saul" procession and contributed rounds of applause as Barcroft steered the donkey through the traffic mostly by means of his shoulders directed against the animal's ribs.
"Come in," said Entwistle as the party finally drew up outside the vet's house. "Put your steed in the stable and stop and have lunch."
"Thanks all the same," said Billy. "I must be getting back, or it will be dark before I see Ladybird Fold again."
The two men said good-bye, and Barcroft, leading the animal, set off on the return journey.
"I'll leave the moke at a blacksmith's, and while the thing's being shod I may as well call and see Betty," he decided, and proceeded to put his plan into execution by enquiring of one of the attendant throng—he suffered their presence with equanimity by this time—where a shoesmith was to be found.
"Fine animal, sir," remarked the smith. "Best I've seen for a long time. Won't hurry, eh? Well, p'raps 'tes not being shod. How long will it take? Say half an hour."
Billy deliberated. It was not much use going to "Mill View" if he had to be back in thirty minutes. On the other hand he could easily put up the animal at Two Elms and save time on the return journey. Besides, curiosity prompted him to watch the forthcoming operation.
The smith was a powerfully-built fellow from his waist upwards. His chest was of enormous depth, his breast and arm muscles stood out like the gnarled trunk of a tree. But his lower limbs were so thin that they seemed incapable of supporting the bulky "upperworks."
Butterfly submitted graciously to the initial stages of the operation, but when it came to shoeing the off-side fore-foot she exhibited signs of obstinacy.
"I'll have to throw her, sir," declared the smith. "Stand aside a bit."
Bending he gripped the donkey's legs and applied his huge bulk to her ribs. Like a felled ox Butterfly fell.
"Keep 'er 'ead down, sir," cautioned the smith. "I won't be long."
At length the last shoe was nailed on and filed smooth. Billy had had about enough of it, for the pungent smell of the forge was far from pleasant. But not so Butterfly. Apparently smarting under the indignity she refused to rise.
The smith applied a leather strap, but unavailingly. He gripped her head and tried to lever it up. The donkey lashed out, narrowly missing Billy's shins.
"Dunno as 'ow I seed such a brute afore," said the smith, scratching his head. "Look 'ere, sir; do you 'old her tail and pull, and I'll tackle her 'ead. Now, up you come."
Butterfly did. With a series of frantic kicks she regained her feet, sent the astonished smith flying in one direction and Billy in another.
For some seconds the flight-sub was too dazed to take any active interest in the sequence of events, but when at length he picked him self up and ran to the smithy door, Butterfly's heels were just visible as at a good fifteen miles an hour she disappeared round the corner of the street.
"SHE'S off home, sir," said the smith. "Don't you fash yousen about 'er. The cart? Run it in 'ere. 'Twill be all right."
Billy paid for the shoeing and walked slowly down the street.
"No good going to see Betty at lunchtime," he soliloquised. "Might just as well see about something to eat."
He made his way towards the cornmarket. Here the traffic was at its height. Nobody would have thought that twelve hours ago a Zeppelin had sought to terrorise these Lancashire folk with a display of "frightfulness," and that within two hundred yards a devastated street bore testimony to the Huns' feeble efforts.
"By Jove, if this had been Karlsruhe or Berlin, wouldn't the Kaiser be shedding floods of tears!" thought Billy. "Good old British public. 'Carry on, carry on—we'll come out top-dog all in good time'—that's the spirit."
A crowd outside the window of a news office attracted his attention. He crossed the road in order to read a broadsheet giving the latest war news. It was cheerful enough, in all conscience:
"Two Zeppelins Down. Official."
"Brief and to the point," exclaimed Billy. "Gives a fellow quite an appetite for lunch. Wonder if any of our crowd scored the winning hits?"
Ten minutes later, while awaiting lunch, Billy bought a paper still damp from the press.
"Honours even!" he exclaimed. "The R.F.C. bring down one gas-bag in Lincolnshire; our fellows bag another twenty miles off the Yorkshire coast. Hullo! Here's the fly on the ointment: one of our seaplanes missing."
He glanced casually at the rest of the news, which consisted mostly of ambiguous and contradictory Allied and enemy reports from the various fronts, a couple of columns of local news and a similar space devoted to racing and football. The whole of the front page was taken up with an advertisement of somebody's Autumn sale.
"Rot!" commented Billy forcibly, "They talk about paper shortage, cut down the paper by a third, and yet accept a whole page advertisement of this trash. The back page, I presume, is taken up with photographs of engaged nonentities that are not of the faintest possible interest to decimal ought-ought-one of the readers."
But the young officer was only partly right. In one column was an item of "Stop Press News" printed in blurred type:—
"The Missing Airmen: Admiralty report that missing seaplane was piloted by Flight-lieutenant John Fuller, with Assist.-Paymaster Robert Kirkwood as observer."
For some moments Billy stared vacantly at the paper. He could hardly realise the truth of the bald statement. It seemed incredible. Never before, during the "Hippodrome's" commission, had a seaplane set out on a particular duty and failed to return. Fuller was a thoroughly capable man; Kirkwood—yes—there was nothing to complain about the way in which he carried out his duties. Had he, Billy, not been on leave the possibilities were that Kirkwood would have flown with him.
Barcroft was essentially of a sanguine nature. He had pictured several of his brother-officers coming a "crash," but never himself. It is the same sort of spirit that pervades the men in the trenches. Others might "go west" but not themselves. It is only on rare occasions that a fighting man has a presentiment that he will go under.
"I'm frightfully sick that I wasn't on board instead of being on leave," thought the flight-sub. "Just my rotten luck. Wonder what has happened to Fuller and Kirkwood? Missing. Perhaps; but I'll stake my all on Fuller. He'll turn up trumps right enough."
Nevertheless Barcroft spent a miserable afternoon. He felt too unsettled to carry out his original programme of calling at Mill View. The desertion of Butterfly he had practically forgotten. All he wanted to do was to go home and await news of his missing chums.
* * * *
Meanwhile Peter Barcroft, having completed his precious proofs to the accompaniment of a choice selection of literary profanity, set out to post the result of his labours.
It was a good mile to the nearest pillar-box, which was on the summit of the hill overlooking Blackberry Cross, and was cleared at the early hour of four p.m.
"Nice walk on a fine day," commented Peter, "but there'll be trouble when it blows, rains or snows. A bit of a change from having a pillar-box outside one's door, and where one can post at ten in the evening with the absolute certainty of the letter being delivered in Town the next morning. Wonder if I'll meet Billy on his way back?"
He whistled for the two dogs and, checking their impetuosity, walked briskly down the lane.
"Pity the car's crocked," he soliloquised. "Might have taken Billy round and shown him the country. By Jove, this air is fine! Makes a fellow glad to be alive. Hope Billy will have fine weather while he's here."
His plans for the entertainment of his sailor son were interrupted by his being nearly run down by a cyclist postman, who, turning sharply from the high road into the lane leading to Ladybird Fold, managed to miss the occupier of that delectable spot by a few inches.
"Sorry, sir."
"Don't mention it," replied Peter affably. "A miss is as good as a mile. Anything for me? You're early this afternoon."
"A telegram for you, sir; postmaster he sent me with it, seeing it's on my way home and there'll not be a lad at t'office."
Peter took the orange-coloured envelope and opened it. Within was a form bearing the words:
"Report for duty at Rosyth immediately."
"No answer," said Peter shortly; then "You might put this in the post for me," handing the man the stamped envelope.
Barcroft Senior retraced his steps. Dashed to the ground were the castles in the air he was building concerning Billy's programme. "Jolly rough luck," he decided, that a youngster's leave should be curtailed in that off-hand manner.
Then he realised that there was a higher claim. His son was wanted—urgently. Personal considerations were nothing compared with the exigencies of the Senior Service in wartime.
"It shows Billy is of some importance," he decided proudly. "They wouldn't trouble to recall him if he were otherwise. Hang it all! if he doesn't turn up within the next half-hour he'll miss the 4.45 from Tarleigh, and that will put him in the cart as far as the Scotch express is concerned. I'll go and meet him and hurry him along."
Peter Barcroft was not usually given to changing his mind in this erratic fashion, but perhaps present circumstances were sufficient excuse. He had not seen his son for some twelve months previous to Billy's belated arrival at Ladybird Fold fourteen hours ago. Of that fourteen hours six had been employed by making up arrears of sleep, and another five by Peter's own act of sending his son into Barborough. Of the remaining time father and son had spent hardly an hour alone—and there were such a lot of things that Peter wanted to tell his boy. Then, as a coping-stone to the series of disappointments, Billy had not seen his mother, as Mrs. Barcroft was not expected home until the evening.
While Peter was walking along the high road, Billy on his homeward journey took the path across the fields, and on the former's return was sitting comfortably in front of the fire.
"Hullo! how did I miss you?" was Peter's greeting. He was considerably puzzled as to how Billy had contrived to reach home with the donkey without passing him on the road. "I've a telegram for you."
"About Fuller?" asked the flight-sub eagerly.
"No," replied Mr. Barcroft. "Why should he want to wire? It's your recall, my boy; and it's too late for the train that catches the Scotch express. She's leaving Tarleigh station now."
"Something in the wind, I'll swear," declared Billy, searching in vain for a time-table. "Fuller's missing. You've heard me mention him several times. Went after one of the returning Zeppelins and hasn't been seen since. Only the other day——"
"What are you disarranging my desk for?" interrupted his father. "A time-table? Here you are. Next train from Tarleigh is at 7.5. That will catch a connection at Barborough and land you at Edinburgh about 4 A.M. How much further to Rosyth?"
"About an hour," replied Billy. "Might do it in time."
"No use worrying about it: that won't help matters," said his father philosophically. "You'll be able to see your mother. She arrives by the same train you leave by. It will only be for a couple of minutes. Better luck next time." Tea over, Billy began his preparations for the journey north. With the assistance of Mrs. Carter his greatcoat was made sufficiently presentable until he could borrow a uniform from an obliging shipmate.
At the station the flight-sub's meeting with his mother was, as Peter had predicted, only of a brief duration, delayed until the guard's in patient exhortation of "Take your seat, sir, if you're going," brought it to a close.
"Good-bye, my boy!" said Barcroft Senior as his son lowered the window of the now closed door.
"I say, pater!" exclaimed Billy, suddenly remembering something in his pocket. "Here, take this. It will interest you. Forgot all about it before this."
Peter took the proffered paper—a copy of the document found on the body of the dead German airman, setting a price upon Barcroft Senior's head.
The train was on the move. Billy, with his head and shoulders still protruding through the window, waved farewells to his parents, then——
"Dash it all!" he shouted. "Butterfly—the donkey—ran away. Clean forgot to mention it."
But Peter merely shook his head. The rumble of the train made the words quite inaudible.
It was nearly seven in the morning when Flight-sub-lieutenant Barcroft arrived at Rosyth, after a long and tedious journey. Mists were hanging over the waters of the Firth of Forth. Even the lofty structure of the Forth Bridge was hidden by the grey bank of vapour. Service craft of all sizes and descriptions were feeling their way up and down the broad estuary, making the welkin ring with the discordant braying on their syrens and foghorns.