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Billy Barcroft, R.N.A.S.: A Story of the Great War

by Percy F. Westerman · English · Gutenberg #35362 · 501,528 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Billy Barcroft, R.N.A.S.: A Story of the Great War

Author: Percy F. Westerman


        
Release date: February 22, 2011 [eBook #35362]
                Most recently updated: January 7, 2021

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BILLY BARCROFT, R.N.A.S.: A STORY OF THE GREAT WAR ***




Produced by R.G.P.M. van Giesen









GLORIES OF SEA
AND AIR SERIES
==============

_By_
_PERCY F._
_WESTERMAN_

  THE MYSTERY SHIP
  THE RIVAL SUBMARINES
  BILLY BARCROFT OF THE R.N.A.S.
  A WATCH-DOG OF THE NORTH SEA
  A SUB. OF THE R.N.R.
  THE DREADNOUGHT OF THE AIR



_Publishers_
PARTRIDGE
LONDON



BILLY BARCROFT, R.N.A.S.



[Frontispiece: "THE FLAMING WRECKAGE WAS PLUNGING EARTHWARDS,
LEAVING A FIERY TRAIL IN ITS WAKE."]



BILLY BARCROFT

R.N.A.S.

A STORY OF THE GREAT WAR



BY

PERCY F. WESTERMAN



  AUTHOR OF
  "A WATCH-DOG OF THE NORTH SEA"
  "A SUB. OF THE R.N.R."
  ETC. ETC.




S. W. PARTRIDGE & CO.
4, 5 & 6 SOHO SQUARE, LONDON, W.1



MADE IN GREAT BRITAIN
_First Published December_, 1917
_Reprinted_ 1928, 1929, 1930



         CONTENTS


  CHAPTER
        I. "YOUR BIRD!"
       II. A PRICE ON HIS HEAD
      III. CONCERNING PETER BARCROFT
       IV. WHEN THE ZEPPELIN WAS OUT
        V. AT LADYBIRD FOLD
       VI. KIDNAPPED
      VII. THE RAID
     VIII. 'MIDST THE SCENE OF RED RUIN
       IX. BETTY
        X. THE SEAPLANE'S QUEST
       XI. THE TERRORS OF THE AIR
      XII. THE RAIDER'S RETURN
     XIII. EXIT SEAPLANE NO. 445B
      XIV. BUTTERFLY
       XV. RECALLED BY WIRE
      XVI. CAPTIVES IN A SUBMARINE
     XVII. THE MIDDLE WATCH
    XVIII. AN OCEAN DUEL
      XIX. HELD UP IN THE NORTH SEA
       XX. INVESTIGATIONS
      XXI. ON THE TRAIL
     XXII. THE STRUGGLE ON THE CLIFFS
    XXIII. ON THE ROCKS
     XXIV. ENTWISTLE'S DECISION
      XXV. THE BOMBING EXPEDITION
     XXVI. A FUTILE RESCUE
    XXVII. FUGITIVES
   XXVIII. TRACKED
     XXIX. GASSED
      XXX. THE BARN BY THE RIVER
     XXXI. THE FRONTIER
    XXXII. AN AVERTED CATASTROPHE
   XXXIII. VON EITELWURMER'S OPPORTUNITY
    XXXIV. KIRKWOOD'S WINDFALL
     XXXV. ONE CARTRIDGE LEFT
    XXXVI. THE ELUSIVE OBJECTIVE
   XXXVII. "THE GREAT STRAFE"
  XXXVIII. SNATCHED FROM HER PURSUERS
    XXXIX. AND LAST



PREFACE

THE GREAT WAR OF 1914 opened the floodgates of hatred between the
nations which took part and this stirring story, written when
feelings were at their highest, conveys a true impression of the
attitude adopted towards our enemies. No epithet was considered too
strong for a German and whilst the narrative thus conveys the real
atmosphere and conditions under which the tragic event was fought
out it should be borne in mind that the animosities engendered by
war are now happily a thing of the past, Therefore, the reader,
whilst enjoying to the full this thrilling tale, will do well to
remember that old enmities have passed away and that we are now
reconciled to the Central Powers who were opposed to us.




BILLY BARCROFT R.N.A.S.




CHAPTER I

"YOUR BIRD!"


Two Bells of the First Dog Watch somewhere in the North Sea.

To be a little more definite it was bordering that part of the North
Sea that merges into the narrow Straits of Dover and almost within
range of the German shore batteries of Zeebrugge.

It was mid-October. The equinoctial gales had not yet arrived to
convert the placid surface of the sea into a regular turmoil of
short, broken waves. Hardly a ripple ruffled the long gentle
undulations. Not a cloud obscured the sky. The slanting rays of the
sun played uninterruptedly upon the sloping deck of H.M. Seaplane
Carrier "Hippodrome" as she forged slowly ahead, surrounded by an
escort of long, lean destroyers.

Her day's work was apparently over. The operations against the
Zeebrugge defences--operations of almost a daily occurrence--had
been carried out according to orders. The observation "kite" balloon
had been hauled down and stowed in the "Hippodrome's" after-well;
her brood of seaplanes had, save one, returned from their task of
"spotting" for the guns of the monitors, and everything had been
made snug for the run back to her base. She awaited only the
reappearance of the stray "duckling" to increase speed for home
waters.

"Billy's getting properly strafed, I fancy," remarked
Flight-Lieutenant John Fuller as the distant growl of innumerable
"antis" reverberated in the still air. "Wonder what the deuce he's
doing? When we swung about over Position 445 he was heading almost
due east."

"Billy won't suffer from cold feet," rejoined his companion--"a
regular glutton for work. Give him a chance for a stunt (bombing
raid) and he's all there. For a mere youngster, I say, he's----"

Further remarks concerning the rashness of Billy--otherwise
Flight-sub-lieutenant Barcroft--were postponed by the appearance of
yet another member of the "Hippodrome's" flying-officers.

"Young Barcroft's just tick-tocked through," he announced. "He's on
his way back. Cool cheek, by Jove! Keeping the crowd of us waiting
while he's joy-riding somewhere in the direction of Berlin. Wonder
how far he went?"

From where they stood, just abaft the starboard funnel-casing, the
officers scanned the horizon. The "Hippodrome," like most of her
sisters, had at one time been a liner, but the building up of a
launching-platform for seaplanes had resulted in considerable
alterations to her external and internal appearance. Amongst other
things she now had two funnels abreast and far apart in place of her
original foremost one, in order to give full scope to the inclined
plane that extended from her bows to within a few feet of the
navigation bridge--a piece of new construction perched at least 150
feet further aft than the old bridge and chart-room of pre-war days.

The clank of a steam winch and the swinging overhead of a long steel
derrick announced the fact that preparations were being made to
welcome home the "stray bird." Although a seaplane could be launched
with ease from the sloping platform, on her return she would have to
alight in the water and "taxi" alongside her parent ship. Hence the
necessity for a long and powerful derrick to swing the seaplane,
with its broad expanse of wings, clear of the ship's side and
deposit it carefully upon deck.

"Here he comes!" exclaimed Fuller, indicating a faint object in the
eastern sky.

Rapidly it resolved itself into a large biplane with triple floats
in place of the three landing wheels that form a necessary adjunct
to army aeroplanes. Then the polished wood propeller, glinting in
the oblique rays of the sun, could be discerned as it slowed down
preparatory to the seaplane commencing a thousand feet glide.

With a succession of splashes the biplane took the water, "bringing
up" with admirable judgment at a distance of less than fifty yards
from the starboard quarter of the parent ship.

The seaplane carried a crew of two. The pilot pushing up a pair of
goggles revealed a fresh-looking, clean-cut face that gave one the
impression of a public school boy. Billy Barcroft was still in his
teens. He had just another month to enter into his twentieth year.
In height he was a fraction under five feet ten inches; weight--an
important consideration from an airman's point of view--was "ten
seven." Supple and active, he carried not an ounce of superfluous
flesh. Standing up and lightly grasping a stay, he swayed naturally
to the slight lift of the seaplane--the personification of that
product of the Twentieth Century, the airman.

His companion, who had just completed the "winding in" of the
trailing aerial, raised his head above the coaming surrounding the
observer's seat. In appearance he resembled Barcroft so
strongly-that the pair might have been taken for twin-brothers. But
no relationship, save the ties of friendship and duty, existed
betwixt Billy Barcroft and his observer, Bobby Kirkwood. The latter
was an Assistant Paymaster, who, deserting the ship's office for the
freedom of the air, had already mastered the intricacies of
"wireless" and other qualifications necessary for the responsible
duties of observer.

"You've been a jolly long time, you belated bird!" shouted Fuller in
mock reproof. "What's the stunt?"

"Couldn't help it," replied Barcroft with a broad grin. "If you were
in my place and saw a crowd of Hun Staff officers pushing along in
motor-cars wouldn't your idea of courtesy lead you to pay them a
little attention? Kirkwood gave 'em a couple of plums and a whole
drum. Result--a slight increase in the Hun death-rate."

Barcroft had, in fact, gone well inland over the German batteries,
on a sort of informal joy-ride. From a height of 5,000 feet the
observer had spotted what appeared to be a motor convoy bowling
along the road between Zeebrugge and Bruges. With a daring bordering
on recklessness the pilot had vol-planed down to within two hundred
feet, greatly to the consternation of the grey-cloaked German Staff
officers, who, leaving the shelter of their steelroofed cars,
scurried with loss of dignity for the safety that was denied most of
them. For with admirable precision Kirkwood had dropped two bombs
fairly into the line of cars, following up the attack by firing a
whole drum of ammunition from the Lewis gun into the fleeing Huns.

Deftly the flexible steel wire from the outswung derrick engaged the
lifting hooks of the seaplane. The machine was just clear of the
water when the order came "Avast heaving." Simultaneously a bugle
blared. It was the call for Flying Officers.

Leaping into the stern sheets of a boat in attendance, Barcroft and
Kirkwood were taken to the side of the "Hippodrome," where they
gained the deck of the ship. Already Fuller and the rest of the
airmen had gone aft. Something was literally in the air.

The signal commander held up a leaf torn from a signal pad.

"A wireless has just come through," he announced in clear deliberate
tones. "A hostile plane has made a raid over parts of Kent. She is
now on her way back, apparently heading for Ostend. Machines from
Eastchurch have started in pursuit, but the Hun has a useful lead.
Now, gentlemen, a nod is as good as a wink to a blind horse: we are
between the raider and his base."

The assembly dispersed like magic, the airmen hurriedly donning
leather jackets and flying helmets and giving peremptory orders to
the mechanics in attendance. In less than five minutes the first of
the stowed seaplanes was ready to glide down the inclined platform
to take to flight.

Yet, from a starting point of view Barcroft had a decided advantage.
His seaplane was practically ready. There was enough petrol for a
lengthy flight, and a good reserve of ammunition for the Lewis gun.
Bombs there were none, nor were any likely to be required for the
task in hand. The chances of a hit on a small and rapidly-moving
target were very remote. It was by machine-gun fire that the attack
upon the returning raider was to be made.

With the motor throbbing noisily and with clouds of oil-smelling
smoke pouring from her exhaust, Barcroft's seaplane taxied away from
the towering side of her ungainly parent. Then, so gracefully that
it was impossible to determine the exact moment when the aircraft
ceased to be waterborne, the seaplane rose swiftly and steadily in
the air.

Climbing in steep spirals the machine quickly rose to a height of
5,000 feet. It was enough for all practical purposes, allowing a
margin of superior altitude to that of the expected Boche.

"Good enough!" shouted the flight-sub through the speaking tube.
"Aerials paid out? All ready?"

"All serene," replied Kirkwood, affixing a whole drum of ammunition
to the upper side of the breech mechanism of the deadly machine gun.
"By Jove, we've all been pretty slick this time. The fifth bird has
just got away."

Barcroft leant over the side of the fuselage. Seven hundred feet
below and speeding away to the nor'-west were a couple of the
"Hippodrome's" seaplanes. Two more, at a lower altitude but still
climbing, were heading in a south-easterly direction. Thus, when the
formation was complete, Barcroft's machine would be in the centre of
a far-flung line thrown out to form a barrier betwixt the solitary
raider and his base.

The British airmen were at an atmospheric disadvantage. Straight in
their face came the rays of the setting sun, while the calm sea
beneath them was one blaze of reflected light. Against that blinding
glare it was almost impossible to distinguish the mere black dot in
the vast aerial expanse that represented the returning hostile
aviator; while on the other hand the Hun, with the sun at his back,
would be able to discern with comparative ease the glint of the
seaplane's wings.

The characteristic tick of the wireless brought. Kirkwood to
attention. With the receiver clamped to his ear he took down the
message and passed it on to his companion.

"Our pigeon!" soliloquised Barcroft grimly. The information was to
the effect that the "Hippodrome" had first sighted the approaching
Hun machine by means of telescopes. The hostile craft had previously
spotted two of the intercepting seaplanes, and her pilot, taking
advantage of the light, decided to make a vol-plane to within a few
hundred feet above the level of the sea. By so doing he was
sacrificing his advantage of altitude, but there was a chance of
slipping unobserved under the British aircraft. Once through the
far-flung cordon he hoped to rely upon superior speed and climbing
powers to elude pursuit.

By this time Barcroft had "picked up" his opponent. At first sight
it seemed as if the Hun were executing a nose dive. Keenly on the
alert the flight-sub depressed the ailerons with a quick yet decided
movement. There was no trace of jerkiness in the pilot's actions.
All were performed with that smooth dexterity and rapidity that
comprised the essential qualifications of a successful airman.

At an aggregate speed of nearly two hundred miles an hour the rival
aeroplanes converged. It seemed as if each pilot were bent upon
ramming his opponent and sending the colliding craft to a common
destruction.

Barcroft, his hands resting lightly on the "joy-stick," was keenly
alert to every forthcoming move of his adversary. Already the Hun
observer was letting off rounds from his machine-gun in the vain
hope that some of the hail of bullets would disable the British
seaplane. On his part Kirkwood "stood by," ready at the first
favourable opportunity to let the Hun have a taste of the Lewis
gun--and the opportunity was not yet.

Suddenly the German monoplane straightened out, then, lifting,
attempted to pass above the seaplane. Quick as a flash Barcroft
grasped the situation. Round swung the British machine, though not
before a dozen holes had been ripped in her wings, as, banking
steeply, she presented a vast spread of canvas to the hostile
machine-gun.

Through the turning movement of his opponent the Hun had gained
nearly three hundred yards. The observer, swinging his gun aft, was
busily engaged in fitting a new belt of ammunition.

It was now Kirkwood's chance. The hostile monoplane was still within
easy range, although momentarily her superior speed was taking her
further and further away from her pursuer. She had broken through
the cordon. Ahead was a straight, unimpeded run for home.

The Lewis gun began to splutter. Half--three-quarters of the drum of
ammunition was expended without tangible result. The Hun observer,
too, had got his machine-gun in working order and was pumping out
nickel at the rate of five hundred rounds a minute.

It was a duel to the death. At that dizzy height no human being
could fall and reach the surface of the sea alive. No cover, no
sheltering trenches protected the four combatants. In the blue vault
of heaven they were compelled to kill or be killed, or even deal out
complete and horrifying destruction to each other.

"Got him, by Jove!" shouted Kirkwood, as the Hun at the machine-gun
threw up his arms and toppled inertly across the barrel of the
weapon. For perhaps ten seconds he hung thus, till the monoplane,
rocking through an air-pocket, tilted violently. For a brief instant
the body trembled in the balance, then slipping sideways the dead
Boche toppled over the edge of the fuselage and fell like a stone
through space.

"Keep it up, you're on it!" yelled Barcroft, never for a moment
taking his eyes off the fugitive monoplane.

His observer heard the shout but the words were unintelligible in
the deafening rush of air Nevertheless he maintained a steady fire
at the enemy machine.

To give the Hun pilot his due he made no attempt to throw up the
sponge. He might have made a nose-dive, trusting to flatten out' and
gain the surface of the water. The machine would have sunk like a
stone, but there was a faint chance of the pilot being able to
unbuckle the strap that held him to the seat and make an attempt to
save himself by swimming.

The Hun did unfasten the leather strap, but for a different purpose.
The monoplane, being of a self-steering type, could be relied upon
to continue her flight more or less in a straight line, without a
controlling touch on the rudderbar.

With a stealthy, cat-like movement the German made his way to the
observer's seat, and gripping the firing mechanism of the machine
gun prepared to return the dangerous greetings from his pursuer.

Less than fifteen miles off--twelve minutes flight--lay the flat
outlines of the Belgian coast. Unless Fritz could be brought down
rapidly the raider would win through.

Suddenly the monoplane tilted and settled down to a dizzy nose-dive.
Whether a vital part had been hit or whether the uncontrollable drop
was due to faulty construction neither Barcroft nor his companion
knew. For the moment the flight-sub imagined that it was a daring
ruse on the part of the Hun pilot, until he realised that the latter
was in the observer's seat when the catastrophe occurred.

Down plunged the vanquished monoplane, spirally, erratically. The
pilot was clinging desperately to the machine-gun. Even as the
'plane dashed through space the weapon, under the pressure of the
Hun's hand, was aimlessly spitting out bullets.

Again the wireless ticked off a message. It was from another
seaplane that, although far away in the original cordon, had swung
round and joined in the pursuit. Kirkwood's eyes twinkled as he
deciphered the dots and dashes: "Congrats: your bird!"




CHAPTER II

A PRICE ON HIS HEAD


FLIGHT SUB-LIEUTENANT BARCROFT scanned the expanse of water beneath
him. The "Hippodrome" was now a mere speck far away to the west'ard.
Four distinct trails of smoke betokened the fact that British
destroyers were pelting to the scene of the seaplane's victory.

On all other points of the compass the surface of the sea was
deserted.

"Wind up!" exclaimed Barcroft, using the speaking-tube for the first
time since the opening of the duel. "I'm going to have a look at our
bag."

The A.P. began to reel in the trailing length of wireless aerial,
while the pilot, shutting off the motor, began a spiral volplane
towards the surface of the water. His "opposite number"--the
seaplane that had tendered her congratulations--was also gliding
down towards the spot where the Hun aeroplane had struck the
surface. Barcroft recognised her pilot as Lieutenant John Fuller.

The white patch of foam that had been created by the terrific impact
of the wrecked machine had already vanished, but a series of
everdiverging concentric circles of iridescent oil marked the spot.
The monoplane had sunk like a stone.

"No use going any lower," announced the Flight-sub, as he prepared
to restart the engine.

"Hold hard!" exclaimed the observer. "There's something floating. I
believe, by smoke! it's the Boche pilot."

"That alters the case, then," decided Barcroft. "We'll investigate
still further."

The Hun showed no signs of life. Kept up by his inflated jacket he
floated on his back, his legs and arms trailing listlessly and his
wide open eyes staring vacantly into the element through which a few
minutes previously he had been flying for his life.

The British seaplane alighted within a stone's throw of the corpse.
Gravely both pilot and observer saluted the vanquished. Whether he
deserved the honour or not the victors did not pause to consider. He
might have been the cause of the deaths of a score or more
inoffensive civilians--women and children perhaps; but death wipes
out old scores. Barcroft and his companion merely recognised the
dead airman as an opponent worthy of their steel, and as such he was
entitled to the homage that one brave man pays to another. Of his
past record they knew nothing. Their tribute was the spontaneous
acknowledgment of a well-contested fight.

Slowly the seaplane taxied until one of the floats was within a foot
or so of the Hun airman's corpse. Agilely Kirkwood swung himself
over the side of the fuselage and swarmed down one of the supporting
struts to the broad float.

"Ugh!" he soliloquised. "The fellow's grinning at me."

Securing the body the A.P. deftly opened the leather jacket. From
the inner breast pocket he withdrew a bulky pocket-book, a map and
an envelope, sealed and addressed and enclosed in oiled silk.
Further search produced a gunmetal watch. On the lid was inscribed
in High German characters: "War substitute in lieu of gold watch
patriotically surrendered by Unter-leutnant E. von Buelow und
Helferich." A purse completed the list of articles found on the
body.

"Buck up!" exclaimed Barcroft. "It will be dark in another twenty
minutes."

Thus abjured Kirkwood opened the valve of the dead airman's inflated
jacket. Slowly the corpse sank beneath the surface to find a
temporary resting-place on the bed of the North Sea. Night had
fallen by the time the seaplanes had returned to their parent ship
and had been safely housed. The "Hippodrome," steaming with screened
lights and escorted by the vigilant destroyers, resumed her belated
run for home waters.

Barcroft and Kirkwood, in the large and well-lighted wardroom, were
examining the "effects" of their victim, while a crowd of
flying-officers stood round to watch the proceedings.

The A.P. had separated the Hun's personal belongings and was making
them up into a parcel, to be sealed and delivered to the dead
aviator's relatives when opportunity occurred. It was a point of
etiquette faithfully carried out by the airmen of both sides
whenever circumstances made it possible.

Barcroft was studiously scanning the documents that were not of a
personal nature. The map was a German production, and comprised a
large scale area of Kent. Probably it was based upon the British
Ordnance Survey, supplemented by details gathered by the swarm of
Hun spies who more or less openly infested the length and breadth of
the British Isles, prior to the memorable month of August 1914. Yet
there was clear evidence of the map being brought up to date,
recently-erected munition factories and other places of military
importance being faithfully recorded. The margin was embellished
with photographic reproductions of views of conspicuous landmarks
taken from a considerable altitude.

"Jolly rummy how these Boche birds get hold of these views,"
commented Fuller. "I swear they didn't take them unless they've been
running daylight trips in noiseless and practically invisible
'planes. It's their strafed organisation that is so wonderful. Knock
holes in that and it's all up with Hunland. Hullo, Billy, what's the
excitement?"

Barcroft, holding up a paper he had taken from the pocket-book, was
studying it with the deepest interest, while his face was dimpled
with lines of suppressed laughter.

"By Jove!" he exclaimed. "Won't the governor be bucked? Listen to
this, you fellows. I'll have to go slow, as some of the
tongue-splitting words take a bit of translating:

"'It is my Royal and Imperial command that steps be taken to secure
the person of the Englishman Peter Barcroft, residing at Rivers dale
House, near Alderdene, in the county of Kent, the said Peter
Barcroft having published or caused to be published books
that--that--(can't quite make out what's Schriftsteller? Ah! I have
it) of which he is the author, the same books treating Us with
libellous contempt. To the good German who succeeds in producing the
said Peter Barcroft alive on German soil will be paid the reward of
twenty thousand marks. In the event of the said Peter Barcroft being
slain by the act of one of my subjects the reward will be ten
thousand marks.--Wilhelm, I.R.'"

"So that's what Unter-leutnant E. von Buelow und Helferich was on the
stunt for," remarked Fuller. "Yes, by smoke! there's a red circle
drawn round the village of Alderdene. Billy, my festive, your pater
will have to look out for himself."

"Perhaps the Hun has already wiped Riversdale House out of
existence," said Barcroft with a hearty laugh.

His brother officers looked at him in astonishment. His levity, at
the possibility of his parent's annihilation by a few hundred pounds
of high explosive, seemed altogether out of place.

"Steady, old man," exclaimed Tarleton, the senior "flight-luff."

"Can't help it," continued Barcroft, vainly endeavouring to suppress
his mirth. "Fancy a Boche going all that way on a fruitless errand,
even supposing he did drop a plum within half a mile of the house.
The governor vacated the show last quarter-day, and it's still
empty. There isn't another house within a couple of miles of it, and
it belongs to a regular pig of a lawyer-josser who's at loggerheads
with everybody. Let's hope, if the house is pulverised, that it
isn't insured against hostile aircraft. I'm not vindictive, but it
would serve the bounder right."

"Where's your governor now?" enquired Fuller.

"Eh? Entering for the Kaiser's Stakes, old man? Well, here's a clue.
He's moved to Tarleigh, a little show somewhere in Lancashire. About
six or seven miles from Barborough, I believe, and the same distance
from anywhere else. At any rate, I'm off there directly I get my
leave. By Jove, won't the old man feel honoured!--a price set on his
head by Irresponsible Bill. He'll feel as proud as Punch. By the
bye--don't all speak at once--who's pinched my matches?"




CHAPTER III

CONCERNING PETER BARCROFT


"AND Billy arrives by the ten-fifty. No, I don't think I'll wait
here for three hours and then stand a chance of missing him. I'll
get back home and give him a fitting welcome to the new house."

Thus meditated Peter Barcroft as he paced up and down the crowded
up-platform of Barborough Station. He had studied with varying
emotions a poster depicting a flabby, pigeon-toed child with one
hand over that part of the human form known to infants as a "tummy"
and supposed to be ejaculating, "I feel so jolly here." Even that
mild excitement paled, and Mr. Barcroft pined for the congenial
warmth of his study. The platform was cold and draughty, offering no
inducements to linger for the arrival of the sure-to-be belated
"ten-fifty."

Peter Barcroft was a thick-set man of fortyfive. In height he was a
good two inches shorter than his airman son. He was clean shaven.
Had he removed his Norfolk cap it might have been noticed that his
iron-grey hair showed thin on his temples and was conspicuously
absent on the top of his head. His forehead was high, and in
conjunction with two vertical wrinkles extending upwards from the
inner ends of his eyebrows, gave the appearance of a deep thinker.
Otherwise there was little about him to give one the idea that he
was engaged in literary pursuits. According to popular notions he
ought to be wearing shabby clothes of eccentric, out-of-date cut; he
should affect a weird type of soft collar and a flowing tie; his
hair ought to be long and wavy. But Peter Barcroft had none of these
qualifications. To judge him by appearances he was just an ordinary
middle-aged man of powerful physique and retaining many of the
qualities of a bygone athletic age.

He had been living only a fortnight in Lancashire. Why he migrated
from Kent was a mystery to the friends he had left behind. Perhaps
he did not know himself, unless it was surrender to a sudden, almost
eccentric desire for pastures new.

Up to a certain point he possessed the artistic temperament. He
worked only when it suited him, and generally seized every plausible
excuse to "knock off." Yet, when he did settle to his task he wrote
at a tremendous rate, and so vilely that often he was quite unable
to decipher his own caligraphy. In financial matters he was as
careless as a man could possibly be. Rarely he knew the state of his
current account. Trivial matters in everyday life would send him
into a towering rage, while the loss of a couple of hundred pounds
hardly troubled him in the least degree. He would ransack the house
to find a favourite pipe which he had mislaid, or waste half a day
searching in vain for a certain pen which he felt sure he had left
in such-and-such a place. On the other hand, when a valuable and
almost new overcoat was stolen from the hall he just shrugged his
shoulders and soon forgot all about it.

During the fortnight he had been the tenant of Ladybird Fold, Peter
Barcroft had either "sacked" or had been "sacked" by three
housemaids and two cooks, to the consternation and despair of his
wife. The servant problem, probably more acute in the manufacturing
district of Lancashire than anywhere else in the kingdom, was in
this case rendered even more difficult by Peter's display of
irritation at the manifold but trivial delinquencies of his staff of
menials.

Mrs. Barcroft had gone on a visit to a relative in Cheshire on the
strength of a vague report that there was a girl who might be
willing to take the vacant place of housemaid at Ladybird Fold-His
wife's absence for two days had given Peter the excuse to "knock
off." It was one of his avowed peculiarities that he could not write
a stroke unless his wife were with him in the study. So Mr. Barcroft
had gone for a jaunt in his light car.

After the splendidly-surfaced gravelled or tarmac roads of Kent the
greasy granite setts and bumpy slag roads of the north came as an
unpleasant surprise to the easy-going Peter. A couple of punctures
in addition to a slight collision with a "lurry"--a type of vehicle
hitherto known to him as a lorry--did not improve his peace of mind,
while what ought to have been the climax to a day of mishaps was the
sudden failure of the magneto at a desolate spot on the western
slope of the Pennine Hills.

But unruffled Peter pushed the car on to the side of the road and
tramped stolidly into the nearest village--a good three miles. Here,
in an interview with the decrepit motor-engineer (Barcroft guessed
rightly that he was too _passe_ even for munition making), he learnt
that at least a month must elapse before the magneto could be
re-wired. He received the intelligence with equanimity, for in his
pocket was a telegram to the effect that Billy was coming home that
night. Nothing else mattered.

"Which is the Tarleigh train?" enquired Mr. Barcroft of a porter.

"Next one in on this side," replied the man gruffly.

Half a minute later the train rumbled into the station. Mr.
Barcroft, realising that up to the present he had not mastered the
intricate system of train-service of the Lancashire and Yorkshire
Railway, and having had many previous experiences of being
misinformed by surly servants of the various railway companies,
addressed himself to a passenger who was about to enter a carriage.

"Tarleigh? Yes, you're quite right. At any rate, I'm for Blackberry
Cross."

"Thank you," replied Peter.

"Motorist?" enquired the other laconically. "Yes; had a breakdown."

The ice was broken. The studied, almost taciturn reserve of the
typical level-headed Lancashire man was not proof against the claims
of motoring. Before the train glided out of the station the two
passengers were deep in the subject of cars and their peculiarities.

"Dash it all! we seem a long time getting to Two Elms," remarked the
stranger.

He drew aside the blind and peered into the darkness. At that moment
the train rumbled under a broad bridge.

"Sorry!" he exclaimed. "We're already half way between Blackberry
Cross and Tarleigh. We must have taken the wrong train: it's a
non-stop to Windyhill."

"Don't mention it," rejoined Peter affably. "I'm quite enjoying your
society. An hour or so won't make very much difference provided I
can get home before eleven. I hope you won't be inconvenienced?"

The stranger laughed.

"I'm secretary of the Tarleigh and Blackberry Cross Golf Club," he
explained. "Entwistle--Philip Entwistle--is my name. By profession I
am what is commonly known as a vet. It's our Annual General Meeting,
and I'm due there at eight."

"'Fraid it will have to stop at the due," said Mr. Barcroft grimly.
"It's 7.30 already."

"You'll be all right," continued Entwistle. "There's a train back
from Windyhill at 10.5, You're a stranger to the district?"

"Fairly so," admitted Peter. "I've take Ladybird Fold for three
years."

"Your name doesn't happen to be Norton--Andrew Norton?"

"No," was the reply. "Barcroft's my name. I know Norton. He's a
newcomer. Only been here a week, I believe; and in that time he's
frozen on to me. Kind of companionship in a strange land, so to
speak. He seems a very decent sort; in fact, I rather like him. He's
my nearest neighbour and he lives at least half a mile from Ladybird
Fold."

"What is he?" asked Entwistle. "Independent?"

"So I should imagine. He has plenty of time on his hands, and spends
a good part of it with me, except when I have to choke him off.
He'll be sitting in my study when I get home, for a dead cert.
Already he's made it a practice of looking me up at ten o'clock of
an evening, after I've knocked off. You see," he added
apologetically. "I have to work."

"At what?" enquired his companion, the Lancashire thirst for
knowledge ever in the foreground.

"I am a professional liar," announced Peter with mock gravity.

"A what? Oh, I suppose you mean that you're a lawyer?"

"Heaven forbid!" protested Mr. Barcroft piously. "You misunderstand
me. I am a novelist. Modesty forbids me to give you my _nom de
Plume_. At present, however, I am engaged upon a book of a technical
character dealing with the conduct of the war. Perhaps some of my
theories will be a bit startling when pushed on to the British
Public, but they'll be vindicated."

"Hang it all!" exclaimed Entwistle. "I have heard of you already."

"Have you really?" enquired Peter. Professional vanity--although he
was not afflicted with "swollen head"--made him perhaps justifiably
keen on hearing outside opinions of his literary efforts.

"Yes," continued his companion. "It was the Vicar of Tarleigh. He
was in Wheatcroft's place--down the bottom of Blackberry Hill and
while he was talking to the old man a car came along driven by you.
In it were two sheep dogs barking like fury. I think I am right in
the description?"

Peter nodded appreciatingly.

"Says the vicar, 'And what might that terrific disturbance mean?'
'Eh, parson,' replied Old Wheatcroft, 'tis but that there
novel-writing chap as lives in Ladybird Fold.' So you see they've
got you posted up all right. But here we are," he continued, as the
train came to a standstill. "It's a jolly draughty station to hang
about."

"It is," admitted Barcroft. "But fortunately there's very little
wind. A proper Zeppelin night."

"Suppose so," admitted Entwistle. "You see, we don't worry very much
about those gentry. Now, in Yorkshire, for instance, it would be
otherwise, but we are on the right side of the Pennines. I don't for
one moment think that a Zep. will ever get so far as this."

Peter shrugged his shoulders. On that matter, he preferred to
maintain silence.

Up and down the bleak platform the two men paced until Entwistle,
glancing at his watch in the feeble glimmer of a shaded lamp,
exclaimed--"Twenty-five to eleven. Bless my soul, the time has gone
quickly. That confounded train is late."

Before Barcroft could offer any remark the platform lights were
turned off. Simultaneously, the electric signal lamps ceased to give
forth their red and green warning.

"What's up?" demanded Entwistle. "Failure of the gas works and the
Company's electric light station?"

"Hanged if I know," declared Peter. "It strikes me very forcibly
that we'll have to walk those seven miles. I suppose it means twelve
for you? A taxi, or even a humble four-wheeler is an impossibility
in this forsaken hole."

A man, stumbling across the rails in the darkness, clambered upon
the platform within a yard of the two would-be passengers.

"Sorry, sir," he muttered apologetically.

"What's all this about?" enquired Entwistle. "Why have the lights
gone out? Are there no more trains to-night?"

"No, sir, no more trains yet awhile," replied the porter, for such
he was. "They've just got a warning through. Them swine of Zeps. is
somewheres about."




CHAPTER IV

WHEN THE ZEPPELIN WAS OUT


"WE'LL have to foot it, man," declared Entwistle decidedly. "Unless
we can get a car to pick us up on the road. Zeppelins, by smoke!
Whoever would have thought it? I didn't; not this side of the
Pennines."

"So I believe you said," replied Peter Barcroft, as the two men
swung down the inclined approach to the station and gained the setts
of the dingy street. "Still, they may be miles away. These official
warnings are the pattern of eccentricity. You know the road?"

"Yes fortunately Dash it all! I don't mind the excitement. It's my
wife I'm thinking about, if they should come to Barborough. Ever
seen a Zep., Barcroft?"

"Several," replied Peter. "They are fairly common objects down in
Kent. Get quite accustomed to them. Latterly I have slept soundly,
in spite of the noise of the engines. Of course they didn't drop any
bombs in that particular district. In point of fact they eventually
dumped their dangerous cargo into some fields a few miles from
anywhere. Our lighting restrictions are far more stringent than they
are up here. Barborough is a blaze of light compared, say, with
Tangtable or Cobley, the nearest large towns to Alderdene, where I
used to live."

"You used to sleep through it," repeated Mr. Entwistle. "That
reminds me. I noticed that when we were walking up and down the
platform just now you invariably got round to my left as we turned.
Are you deaf in one ear?"

"Yes," replied Peter. "Stone deaf in my left. A really valuable
asset when one has to be in the presence of bores, or enduring
curtain lectures and the like."

"Then we may congratulate ourselves," was his companion's response.
"I, too, am deaf, only in my right ear. When I was at school at
Scarborough a brute of a master hiked me up by my ears. Result,
deafness in one of them. Yes, I agree, it's very convenient at
times."

By now they had breasted the steep rise out of Windyhill and had
gained the bleak summit of the lofty ridge. In ordinary
circumstances would be seen the twinkling lights from scores of
factories--"works" as these are termed locally--in the five distinct
valleys that radiate from this particular spur. All was now in utter
darkness, save for a feeble glimmer from an isolated signal-box at
the entrance to a deep cutting.

"That chap's looking for trouble," declared Barcroft, indicating the
dim patch of luminosity. "They would spot that for a distance of ten
miles. I say, isn't the atmosphere clear for this part of the
country, and in autumn, too. It's the first absolutely fine night I
have seen since I've lived here--ideal for Zeps., too. No wind to
speak of and pitch dark. Listen."

The two men stopped abruptly. Above the faint rumble of the evening
breeze could be distinguished a subdued and distinct hum.

"That's the brute," declared Peter. "It's a Zep, sure enough."

"Certain?" asked Entwistle anxiously.

"Rather--and it's coming this way."

In silence the two pedestrians waited. Nearer and nearer came the
now increasing buzzing of the engines of the immense gas-bag. Vainly
they attempted to detect the elongated airship. With heads thrown
back they strove to pierce the black vault above. The "thing" was
there, but it was invisible from where they stood. Only by the
sinister sounds did they know of its presence. Then with the same
rapidity as the unseen had approached the whirr grew fainter and
fainter until it was heard no longer.

"Phew!" ejaculated Entwistle, mopping his forehead. "I'm not of a
funky nature, but, by Jove! I'm glad that beastly thing's gone. It
gives a fellow a peculiar sensation somewhere in the region of the
stomach. What's the time?"

"About eleven, I should imagine," replied Barcroft. "I won't strike
a match. Well, I suppose the Zep. has missed Barborough by this
time--unless she's slowed down and circling over the town," he added
in an undertone.

They were descending into one of the numerous valleys that lay
betwixt them and Tarleigh. The effluvium of a neighbouring bleaching
works was wafted to their nostrils.

"Rufford's Works," explained Entwistle. "Lucky that Zep didn't drop
a bomb. There are hundreds of gallons of benzine stored there....
Yes, I fancy it's all right as far as Barborough is concerned. Wish
a car would overtake us. Notwithstanding the fine night I don't feel
particularly keen for a long tramp."

"Let me give you a shakedown at Ladybird Fold," suggested Peter.
"You can telephone through to Barborough and let your wife know
where you are."

"No, no, my dear fellow," protested Entwistle. "It's imposing on
your good nature. Besides, you mentioned that your son was coming
home on leave."

"Yes," said Mr. Barcroft. "Wonder if he's arrived yet, or is held up
at some out-of-the-way railway station or in a tunnel. That won't
make any difference. If it did I shouldn't have mentioned the
matter. I can be as confoundedly blunt as you Lancashire people when
I want."

"So I believe," rejoined Entwistle tersely. "Well, I'll accept your
offer with pleasure. Now for the next hill. It's a regular brute,
even for this part of the world. When a fellow is past forty he's
not so good at this sort of work as he was. One has to admit the
fact however much one tries to stifle the discovery. I used to pride
myself on being a runner, and it came as a nasty shock when my
fifteen-year-old son beat me in a 440 sprint--not by so very much,
though," he added in defence of his bygone prowess.

"The third milestone," announced Peter pointing to a weatherbeaten
slab just visible in the gloom.

"Yes, and the highest part of the road," added Entwistle. "It is
about----".

He stopped abruptly. Away to the southward a vivid flash illuminated
the sky, followed by three more in quick succession. Summer
lightning would pale into insignificance compared with the intensity
of those momentary sheets of lurid light.

"Good heavens--Barborough!" ejaculated the vet.

Barcroft made no remark. Failing his inability to read the face of
his watch he placed the fingers of his right hand on his left wrist
and carefully counted the pulse beats.

"Forty-five!" he announced calmly as the first of four loud
detonations rent the air.

Crash--crash--crash--crash. It was as if he had been inside a tin
bath and some one was belabouring it with a wooden mallet. Even
allowing for the distance of the source of the sound the din was
terrible.

A minute later came two more flashes, almost simultaneously, with
forty-eight beats before the reports. Then one solitary flash
followed by an even greater interval ere the detonation was heard.

"The brutes!" muttered Entwistle.

Again Peter made no audible comment. He was making a rapid mental
calculation. Seventy pulsations to a minute: sound travels at
roughly 365 yards to a second. Yes, that placed the scene of the
raid at a distance of nine miles, and judging by the direction it
was that populous town that had been the target for the missiles of
the Zeppelin.

"She's gone, at any rate," he said.

"Yes, but goodness only knows what damage she's done in that minute
and a half," added Entwistle. "What's more we're between her and
that cursed Germany. Come on, man, let's hasten."

It was half-past twelve as the two pedestrians made their way
through the village of Scatterbeck. Almost the whole of the
population was astir, discussing in the shrill rapid Lancashire
dialect the totally unexpected visit of the aerial raider. Thrice
enquiries on the part of Barcroft and his companion brought the
disconcerting information that no vehicle of any description was
available. There was nothing for it but to continue their long
tramp.

At length the summit of Tarleigh Hill was surmounted. Here they
encountered a belated wayfarer--a watchman from the neighbouring
works.

"Eh, maaester," he replied to an anxious question. "I'm thinkin' 'tes
Barborough right enow. Seed 'em drop mysen, an' agen ower Percombe
way. Eh, but there'll be a rush to t' recruitin' office after this.
Lancashire's done main well in sojerin', but this'll cap everythin'.
This night's work'll cost that there Kayser summat when the
Barborough lads in t' trenches get to know o' it."

"That fellow's right," commented Mr. Barcroft after the watchman had
taken a by-road. "These Zeps, do very little military damage. They
don't intimidate or terrify the people, except, perhaps, those in
the actual district raided. The German bombs are like the dragon's
teeth of mythology; sown, they spring up as British soldiers, eager
to avenge themselves upon the Kaiser's troops. If I had my way I'd
run cheap excursions to the raided areas from Bristol, Exeter and
other towns as yet not troubled with the Zeps. to let the people see
the damage done to British homes. That would stir their imaginations
and let 'em think strongly. Instead, all details of raids are kept,
or are endeavoured to be kept, a profound secret by our wiseacres in
authority. The report of the damage done is minimised--not that I
would suggest making the news public as far as buildings of military
importance are concerned--and the result is that the phlegmatic
Briton who is not directly affected by the raid merely reads the
bald newspaper account, mentally consigns the Government to
perdition and forgets all about it."

"According to that American lecturer, Curtin, they do things better
in France," added Entwistle. "The French allow full descriptions of
the Zeppelin raids in their country to be published, and the result
is discouraging to the Huns. At the time we were referring to these
raids taking place in the 'eastern counties,' when the Germans knew
exactly where they had been. I shouldn't wonder if this night's
affair is described as taking place on the East Coast or the South
Midlands instead of within sight of the Irish Sea."

"And yet nothing did more to depress the Germans than the humorous
and true accounts of the Zep, raids that were eventually allowed to
appear in the British newspapers."

"Except when we do bag half a dozen of them at one swoop," added the
vet. "Mark my words, we'll get our own back with interest."

"What's the matter?" asked Peter, noticing that his companion had
reduced his pace and was limping slightly.

"Galled heel, worse luck," replied the vet. Even in the darkness
Barcroft could discern his face twitching. "But it's nothing. I'll
stick it."

"Look here," declared Barcroft authoritatively. There were times
when the easy-going Peter could make himself obeyed. "It's all jolly
rot your carrying on. You'll be lame in another mile. You must stick
to the original programme, and stop at my place. What's happened at
Barborough has happened, and your presence there to-night won't mend
matters. Besides, there's the telephone."

Entwistle capitulated. In fact he was in great pain. The injury to
his foot was more than he cared to admit. Not only was his heel
badly chafed, but he had twisted his ankle on a loose stone.

"All right," he replied. "But suppose I can't get through on the
'phone?"

"You will," said Barcroft confidently. "Now: hang on to my arm. It's
only a couple of hundred yards up the hill."

The last two hundred yards was a pilgrimage of pain. The approach
was along a narrow lane paved with irregular slabs and enshrouded:
with trees that threw the path into even greater gloom than the high
road. The blackness was so intense that it appeared to have
weight--to press upon their eyeballs like a tightly adjusted
bandage. Away to the left came the gurgle of a mountain stream as it
flowed swiftly through a deep cutting in the rocks.

"Here we are," said Peter at last.

"Yes," agreed Entwistle. "I know the place."

They were now clear of the trees. Looming mistily against the dark
sky was a long, rambling, two-storeyed building surrounded by a
roughly built stone wall. The latticed windows were heavily
curtained. Not a light nor a sound came from the isolated dwelling.

"So Billy hasn't turned up yet," remarked Barcroft senior as he
fumbled for his key. "Why, by Jove, the door's wide open!"




CHAPTER V

AT LADYBIRD FOLD


"COME in," he continued, assisting his companion over the threshold.
"I won't switch a light on in the hall until I close the door. Jolly
queer about it being open. There'll be a court of enquiry in the
morning."

A violent scratching upon the study door attracted his attention.

"That's Ponto and Nan--my sheep-dogs," he explained. "Wonder why
they are locked in? They ought to be in the kennels. They're quiet
enough: they won't bite."

Entwistle smiled grimly. Peter's idea of quiet seemed rather
peculiar, for the animals were barking furiously and redoubling
their attacks upon the door.

"The paintwork?" echoed Barcroft in answer to his companion's
enquiry, as he proceeded to hang up his cap and coat. "Oh, that
won't matter. You see, there's a curtain on the inside and that
hides the marks."

He opened the door of the study, to be greeted with a blaze of
dazzling light and a couple of shaggy-haired dogs, who hurled
themselves upon him in an ecstasy of delight.

"Down, down, both of you! Kennel up," ordered their master.

The dogs obeyed, Ponto retiring to the limited space between the
pedestals of the roll-top desk while Nan bounded into the large
arm-chair by the fire.

"That's better," said Barcroft composedly, glancing at the desk to
see if any letter had arrived. "Now take it easy for a bit. There's
the telephone. I'll scout round and see what's going. Whisky? Good!
Excuse me a minute while I look for some stuff for your foot."

Philip Entwistle settled himself in the only vacant arm-chair and
took stock of his immediate surroundings. The study was a fairly
large room, measuring, roughly, thirty feet by twenty. On the side
facing south were three broad casement windows, now heavily
curtained with a light-proof fabric. The door was on the eastern
side, opening into a spacious hall. The remaining walls were blank
except for the old-fashioned fireplace. Oak panelling and massive
beams of the same material--wood that had been in position for close
on three hundred years--gave an old-time appearance to the room. The
furniture was hardly in keeping with the place. Presumably it was
for utility. The large pedestal, roll-top desk occupied a
proportionate position against the west wall. Almost every available
bit of wall-space was taken up with book-cases groaning under the
weight of volumes of all sizes and ages, from the leatherbound tomes
of the late Stuart period to the modern "sevenpenny." Not a picture
was in evidence. Instead, above the book-shelves the walls were
adorned with pieces of medieval armour and weapons ranging from the
Elizabethan musketoon and pike to the latest type of magazine rifle.
Above the fireplace was a seven-feet-scale model of a super-Dreadnought
that, in its sombre garb of battleship grey, contrasted
strongly with the black and yellow striped hull and dun-coloured
canvas of an eighteenth century frigate that adorned another part
of the room.

The study, like the rest of the house, was lighted by electricity--a
discovery that Peter Barcroft had made with huge satisfaction. It
was, indeed, a rare chance to hit upon an isolated dwelling, in a
commanding, lofty situation, well-built and supplied with water, gas
and electricity. The secret lay in the fact that at one time it had
been the residence of the manager of the nearest bleaching works.
Had it been daylight one would have noticed a line of hefty posts
supporting a cable-system that ran up hill and down dale almost as
far as the eye could reach. At certain intervals the supports bore a
large board on which was painted in bold letters: "Dangerous--10,000
volts"--a warning to the youth of the district who might feel
tempted to fly kites over the wires or even to climb the poles out
of sheer exuberance of juvenile spirits.

It was from this cable by means of a "transformer" that Ladybird
Fold derived its supply of electric current, and, as it happened,
the works had not received any warning that night of the raid--a
circumstance that contributed greatly to the comfort of Peter
Barcroft's den.

From his chair Entwistle glanced at his host's desk and shuddered.
The cover had been left rolled back, disclosing a veritable chaos of
papers, reference books, writing materials, pipes and two large
tobacco-jars. The pigeon-holes were crammed to bursting-point with a
medley of papers, particularly the one labelled "Letters to be
answered." From another gaped the crumpled ends of what were
evidently a number of cheques that awaited a favourable opportunity
on the part of the busy author (he put in an occasional two hours a
day, be it remembered) to be paid into the Barborough Bank. A thick
layer of dust covered the desk, although everything else in the room
was fairly clear if the patches of tobacco ash on the carpet square
were not taken into account. It was part of Peter's creed to knock
out his pipes on the heel of his boot and deposit their remains on
the floor, convenient ash-trays notwithstanding. For one thing it
kept the moth away.

The dust, too, upon the desk was the result of studied design. The
"help" from the village--a temporary importation pending Mrs.
Barcroft's return and provided she was successful in her distracting
quest--had been strictly enjoined, browbeaten and threatened with
divers pains and penalties, not to disturb Peter's papers. With luck
he could find what he wanted in five minutes; without, in an hour.
That is, if the desk had been left severely alone. Otherwise, should
the timorous female dare to "side-up"--a Lancashire expression that
puzzled Barcroft tremendously at first--the quest would be almost
hopeless.

Had Philip Entwistle been more inquisitive and observant he might
have noticed that on the top of the pile of literary debris were two
objects that showed no signs of a coating of dust. One was a bound
volume entitled _The Theories of Modern Naval Warfare_--a work of
Peter's that had been responsible for a price being set upon the
head of that as yet unconscious-of-the-fact worthy. The other was a
batch of manuscript comprising his nearly completed book _The Great
Reckoning--and After._

The reappearance of his host with a tray bearing a tantalus, syphon
and a couple of glasses, cut short Entwistle's casual survey.

"How goes it now?" asked Barcroft. "Telephoned?"

"You certainly said, 'There's the telephone,'" replied his guest,
"but failed to explain to my satisfaction where 'there' is.
Consequently that solemn and protracted rite has not yet been
performed."

"Sorry," said Peter with a laugh. "My mistake entirely. I ought to
have mentioned that that convenient but much maligned instrument is
in the hall. There's a great-coat hanging over it: my device to
deaden the nerve-racking sound of the bell."

Entwistle shuffled across the room. In spite of the fact that he was
now wearing a pair of his host's capacious slippers the injured foot
occasioned him more pain than while he was on his way to the house.

He left the door ajar. Barcroft could hear him thumping the as yet
unresponsive machine. Quite five minutes passed before his guest
could "get on."

"Number four four five, Barborough ... what--engaged ... no reply?
Well, try again."

More violent manipulation of the telephone accompanied by a flow of
forcible language resulted in the desired object being attained.

"That you, Vi?... Yes,.. yes,.. no, I wasn't injured ... what's
that? Church Street knocked out of existence.... Not nervous? That's
good. I'm speaking from Ladybird Fold, Tarleigh. Tell Jarvis to run
the car over for me in the morning. Yes, about ten. Good-night."

Returning to his study he found Peter at his desk.

"Needn't have worried so much about my wife," he announced. "She's
quite plucky over it. She even chipped me at having missed the
excitement."

Barcroft did not reply. He was regarding his desk with a distinctly
preoccupied air.

"Dash the L.L.P." he exclaimed, addressing the room in general
rather than his guest. "I'll swear she's been meddling with my
papers. And she left that door open. I'll let her know who rules
this show."

"Who's L.L.P.?" enquired Entwistle.

His host laughed.

"Merely the help," he replied. "Carter's her name. I call her Little
Liver Pill--she reminds me of one. L.L.P, for short, you know."

"Might be your friend Andrew Norton," suggested the other.

"By Jove, yes! I hadn't thought of that," was the reply. "All the
same, I don't think he would touch my desk. It's just likely that in
a preoccupied moment (although as a rule he isn't given that way) he
may have gone home and left the lights switched on and the door
open. Hulloa, this looks queer! I wonder if Norton got into a funk
over the Zep.?"

Barcroft pointed to a pipe lying on the mantelpiece. It was freshly
filled and the tobacco was slightly charred, indicating that the
owner had been interrupted in the act of lighting up.

"His pipe," he continued. "And he seems a fairly methodical fellow,
not likely to leave anything behind. Hope he's all right. If it
wasn't for the fact that I've had a long tramp and it's close on one
thirty I'd run across to his place."

"What sort of a man is he?" enquired Entwistle.

"Decent--quite. Nothing of the bore about him, or I would have
choked him off very quickly," replied Barcroft grimly. "Quite
informal, and different from the ordinary type of caller when a
fellow comes into a fresh district. You know the sort--stiff-necked
blighters of both sexes who pay formal calls for the sole purpose of
finding out who you are, what you are and what you've got. In my
case, I suppose, they expect to find a sort of untamed curiosity:
that's how they regard literary men, I believe. But my time is too
precious to waste in that way, so I let them know it pretty quickly.
Ah, there are the trains running again," he added as a dull rumble
was borne to their ears. "Zep. show's over for to-night. Keen on
bed?"

"Not very," replied Entwistle. "Are you?"

"I'm going to wait up for Billy," said the fond parent. "Wonder what
the young bounder is doing now?"

As he spoke came the sounds of quick, firm footsteps up the cobbled
path. Before Peter could get across the room the door was thrown
open and Flight-Sub-lieutenant Barcroft, his face blackened with
smoke and dust and his great-coat bearing signs of rough usage,
burst into the room.

"Cheer-o, pater!" he exclaimed. "Sorry I'm late. Some night, eh,
what?"




CHAPTER VI

KIDNAPPED


IT will now be necessary to set back the hands of the clock to the
hour of ten on the evening of the Zeppelin's visit to Barborough.

At that hour Mr. Andrew Norton was knocking on the door of Ladybird
Fold, and vainly endeavouring to restrain the boisterous attentions
of Ponto and Nan.

"Good evening, Mrs. Carter," he said as the door was opened
revealing the domestic stopgap with her head covered by a shawl--the
recognised head-dress of the working-class women of industrial
Lancashire. "Any one at home?"

"Only mysen, master," was the reply. "An' in another minute you
would be findin' me gone. Mr. Barcroft he's out, but he'll not be
long, I'm thinkin'. An' young Mr. Barcroft--'im as is in the
Navy--is expected home to-night. But come in, you're kindly
welcome."

"And at what time is young Mr. Barcroft expected?" he asked in a
tone that implied mild curiosity, as he stepped over the threshold.

"I'm not for sayin' for certain. Master had a telegram. You'll not
be wantin' anythin', sir?"

Norton shook his head. Accompanied by the two dogs he entered the
study and switched on the lights. As he did so he heard the door
slam and Mrs. Carter's retreating footsteps on the hard path.

He knew how to make himself at home during his friend's absence. He
was one of those men who have the happy knack of forming quick
friendships, and the somewhat easy-going Peter was a good subject in
that respect.

Andrew Norton was a man of forty-five, although he looked
considerably younger. He was of medium height, full-featured and
inclined to stoutness. A keen motorist, he had attracted Barcroft's
attention on the very first day of his taking possession of "The
Croft," when he was endeavouring to take a large car up the
difficult lane beyond Ladybird Fold. Since there was plenty of
accommodation in the outbuilding utilised as a garage at Barcroft's
house Peter's suggestion that it would be easier for the newcomer to
The Croft to keep his car there and thus save a steep and loose
ascent was accepted with profuse gratitude.

From that moment the friendship ripened. Almost every evening after
the literary man's strenuous labours were completed for the day
Andrew Norton would drop in for a smoke and a yarn.

"Rotten nuisance!" mused the hostless guest as he settled himself in
an easy chair. "If only I knew what time he was returning. The
uncertainty will probably make a regular mess of present
arrangements."

It might have been idle curiosity that prompted him to cross over to
the desk and examine Peter's uncompleted work; sheer anxiety that
led him to the open window to listen intently for the sound of his
absent friend's footsteps.

Through the uncurtained window three shafts of brilliant light were
flung upon the closely-cropped lawn, the limit of the rays being
defined by a thick hedge dividing the lawn from the rose-garden.

"No signs yet," he muttered, as he glanced at the clock for the
twentieth time. "Friend Barcroft's regrettable absence is spoiling
my evening. I'll get back to The Croft."

He drew the curtains with deliberate care, so that no stray ray of
light should escape. Lighting restrictions were lax in that part of
Lancashire, as the twinkling glimmers from the houses in the valley
testified; for in the district where he had previously lived for two
years there were drastic observances on that score, and now the
habit of conforming to the requirements of the authorities was not
lightly to be dropped.

"I'll give him five minutes more," he soliloquised as he drew a pipe
from his pocket and charged it with great deliberation. This he
proceeded to light, making use of a paper spill. Here he showed a
marked contrast to the easygoing methods of the occupier of Ladybird
Fold. In spite of their high price, Peter invariably used
matches--and plenty of them. Usually the hearth was littered with
the burnt-out stumps, for Barcroft always had a pipe in his mouth
when he was writing. It might go out twenty times before the tobacco
was expended, but every time a fresh match was struck and flung away
to augment the already numerous accumulation in the fireplace.

Just then the two dogs sat up and barked. Norton started nervously.
He was only just beginning to get used to the sturdy, shaggy
animals.

"Quiet!" he shouted.

A peremptory knock sounded on the door. The still burning spill fell
from the man's fingers. He made his way into the hall, shutting the
study door upon the dogs. Vainly he groped for the switch operating
the front door light.

"Who's there?" he demanded.

"Telegram for Mr. Barcroft," replied a deep voice.

Had Norton paused to consider the likelihood of a telegram being
delivered at a very late hour in a remote country district he might
have saved himself from a great deal of personal inconvenience. But
he did not.

He threw open the door. His eyes, still dazzled by the quick
transition from the brilliant light within to the intense darkness
without, stared vacantly into the night, while his right hand groped
furtively for the expected orange coloured envelope.

As he did so a pair of powerful hands grasped his ankles. His
involuntary exclamation of mingled astonishment and indignation was
stifled by a thick cloth twisted over his mouth and round his head,
while simultaneously his arms were pinioned to his sides.

Unable to move a limb, much less to struggle, he found himself
lifted from the ground and borne away as helpless as an infant.

"Fools!" he spluttered. "Fools! You'll be sorry for this."

Whether his captors heard his muffled protests or not they paid no
heed save to give the cloth that encircled his head an extra twist.
The pressure upon his nose was painful. He had difficulty in
breathing, so, realising that his stifled exclamations were futile,
he wisely held his peace from a vocal point of view, although
inwardly he was raging furiously.

He could hear the boots of his captors clattering on the cobbles
until the crisp-sounding footfalls told him that the men had gained
the cinder path on the east side of the house. Then, with
considerable effort on the part of his bearers, he was lifted up a
flight of four stone steps, beyond which, he knew, was an extensive
grassfield that rose gradually for the next half mile.

Grunting and obviously short of breath the men trudged stolidly
onwards for perhaps nearly two hundred yards. Once Norton thought
fit to make a sudden effort and wriggle from his captors' grasp, but
the attempt ended disastrously to himself. Brutally they bumped him
upon the ground. The shock to the spinal system was excruciating,
but it had the desired effect. The prisoner's spirit of resistance
was broken; even the stern mandate, "Quiet, or you are a dead man,"
was unnecessary.

The scarf or cloth that enveloped his head had slipped during the
struggle. He could now see. Either his kidnappers had not noticed
the fact or else they regarded it as of no consequence.

He could discern the faces and upper portions of the bodies of the
two men. They were tall burly fellows dressed in black oilskins. In
spite of their powerful physique they were breathing stertorously;
they reeked of petrol.

Another fifty yards and they came to a halt. Norton turned his head
and saw what appeared at first sight to be the dark grey body of a
motorcar. It was quivering under the application of some unseen
influence, yet there was no purr of internal mechanism to justify
the belief that it possessed self-contained machinery.

"Lash that schweinhund's ankles, Pfeil," ordered one of the fellows
in German. "That is right; now do you enter first and I'll heave the
English fool up so that you can get him inside."

"Now is the dangerous time," commented his companion as he scrambled
through a narrow aperture.

"It is ever a dangerous time with us," rejoined the other gloomily.

"Ah, yes; but now? Supposing the wire is insufficient to take the
strain?"

"It will bear thrice our total weight," replied the first speaker,
"frail though it looks. No fear of that breaking. It is that
highly-charged electric cable that worries me. We must have landed
nearer to it than we should have done, yet it looks further away on
the map."

The fellow completed his difficult task of lifting Norton into the
interior of the covered-in car--the observation room of a Zeppelin
floating motionless five hundred feet or so overhead.

The commander of the giant aircraft had successfully carried out a
daring manoeuvre with the ultimate object of taking prisoner the man
on whom his imperial master the "All-Highest" had set a price for
his capture. Taking advantage of an almost imperceptible breeze and
knowing his position to an almost dead certainty by means of exact
cross-bearings afforded by three reservoirs, conspicuous even in the
darkness, he had caused to be lowered the aluminium observation car.

In flight this contrivance is slung close under the after part of
the Zeppelin, but when necessary it can be lowered by means of a
fine but enormously strong flexible steel wire to a maximum distance
of two thousand feet beneath the giant envelope. Thus it is possible
for a Zeppelin to remain hidden in a bank of clouds and lower the
observation car to within a few hundred feet of the ground. Its
comparatively small size and inconspicuous colour would render it
invisible even at that short distance, and give the observer an
uninterrupted view of the country. By means of a telephone he could
then communicate with the commander of the airship and indicate the
objects singled out for attack.

On this occasion the aluminium box was lowered till it touched the
ground. The two men purposely told off for the work in hand had
anchored the car, thereby keeping the Zeppelin stationary also. In
the event of a surprise the airship's crew would unhesitatingly
sever the wire and leave the car and their two comrades to their
fate.

And now most of this particular enterprise had been carried out. The
supposed object of their attentions lay gagged and bound within the
aluminium cage. All that remained to be done was to break out the
grapnel and signal to the men in the Zeppelin to wind in the steel
cable.

"All ready?" enquired Pfeil through the telephone. "Good! When I
give the signal will you forge ahead to the north-east? Why? Because
we are much too close to the high tension cable which Herr Leutnant
knows of."

He leant through an aperture in the side of the cradle and listened
intently. At the first sound of the airship's propellers he jerked a
tripping-line smartly. The fluke of the grapnel folded as he did so,
and the car, no longer held captive, slid jerkily over the grass.

"Up!" telephoned the German.

The next instant Norton felt himself being lifted through the air as
the car ascended swiftly at a rate of five feet a second. In less
than two minutes the cradle's supplementary movement ceased. It was
hauled hard up against the immense bulk of the Zeppelin and secured
with additional lashings.

The wind was now shrieking through the lattice work of the airship,
as gathering speed she flew through the still air at a rate of
nearly fifty miles an hour, or a little more than half her maximum
speed.

It was cold--horribly cold. Lightly clad and coming from a warm room
the prisoner felt the change acutely. He shivered in spite of his
efforts to the contrary.

Gripped by the ankles he found himself being dragged like a sack of
flour from the detachable car to the V-shaped gangway connecting two
of the fixed gondolas. The lashings securing his lower limbs were
cast off, and, thrust forward by the powerful Pfeil, he was made to
walk along the narrow corridor.

"Here is the Englishman, Herr Leutnant," announced the German
addressing a short, corpulent officer who stood by the bomb-dropping
apparatus in the centre of the gondola.

"Good!" was the appreciative reply. Ober-leutnant Julius von
Loringhoven squirmed in anticipation of winning more than a half of
the promised guerdon. A share--a considerable share
unfortunately--was owing to a certain individual who, acting as an
agent of the German Government, had given valuable aid in snaring
the proscribed Englishman. His assistance was necessary, of course,
but that meant a sensible reduction of the sum of paper money with
which von Loringhoven hoped to restore the fortunes of his
impoverished house.

"Good!" he repeated. "Remove that covering and let me look at the
pig."

Pfeil obeyed smartly. With a savage jerk he exposed the face of his
captive.

"Utter idiot!" shouted Andrew Norton in German. "Imbecile! You've
blundered and spoilt everything."




CHAPTER VII

THE RAID


OBER-LEUTNANT JULIUS VON LORINGHOVEN recoiled a couple of paces in
sheer amazement. The compartment in which he stood was strictly
limited in point of size, or he might have stepped back even more,
so great was his consternation. For some seconds he stood with his
shoulders against the aluminium bulkhead, his small eyes protruding
to their utmost capacity.

"Von Eitelwurmer!" he gurgled at last. "What does this mean?"

"It means," retorted Andrew Norton furiously, "that your men have
wrecked everything. It is their duty to wreck everything English, I
admit, but they have overreached themselves."

"I am sorry," said the ober-leutnant humbly, though the apology
needed an effort. "The culprits will be duly punished."

"And serve them right," interrupted the kidnapped man. "But that
will not mend matters. Our plans are completely upset; Barcroft will
take warning; there will be no plausible excuse for my sudden
departure--Ach, it is intolerable. Is it possible to set me down?"

Von Loringhoven shook his head.

"Impossible," he replied. "You must return with us to the
Fatherland. Meanwhile I must take steps to justify the presence of
this war-machine over the hated country."

Siegfried von Eitelwurmer was one of the German super-spies--a class
far and above the host of ordinary spies that, in spite of the
utmost vigilance on the part of the British government, still
continue their activities although in a restricted form. To all
outward appearance he was English born and bred. His mannerisms were
entirely so. Even in his most excitable moods, for Teutonic
stolidity was almost a stranger to him, he would never betray by
word or gesture the fact that he was of Hunnish birth and
sympathies. When he spoke in English his inflexion was as pure as a
typical Midlander; his knowledge of British habits and customs was
profound. In short, he was one of the most dangerous type of German
agents that ever set foot on British soil.

It will be unnecessary to detail his past activities, which almost
invariably he carried out successfully and without giving rise to
suspicion, even at times when the espionage mania was at its height,
and Britons were being arrested and detained on suspicion for
various slight acts of indiscretion that they had committed in pure
ignorance. A man might in all good faith take photographs of a place
of national interest; an artist might make a sketch in the grounds
of his own house--and be promptly haled before the magistrates and
fined. The "powers-that-be" seem to be blind to the fact that a
trained spy would not attempt to use a conspicuous camera. An
instrument of the vest-pocket type would serve his purpose equally
well and with little chance of detection.

It was the Kaiser's manifesto relating to the capture of the
"dangerous" Peter Barcroft that turned the course of von
Eitelwurmer's activities in the direction of Ladybird Fold--not
wholly for the sake of the pecuniary reward, but with the idea of
gaining additional kudos at the hands of his Imperial master.

The spy had little difficulty in tracing Barcroft's movements from
the time he vacated Riversdale House in the village of Alderdene.
The information that his quarry had removed to Tarleigh in
Lancashire he had communicated to Berlin, but owing to a delay the
news was not in time to prevent the Hun airman, von Buelow und
Helferich, making his ill-fated flight to the south-eastern part of
England.

Von Eitelwurmer's method of communicating with Berlin was simplicity
itself, and as such ran less chance of detection than if he had
resorted to elaborate and intricate means.

He would obtain catalogues from manufacturers living in the same
town in which he had taken up his temporary abode. On the pages he
would write with invisible ink--or even milk or lemon, both of which
when dried naturally show no trace of their presence--his reports,
taking the additional precaution of using a cipher which he could
retain mentally and thus do away with the risk of incriminating
documents.

The next step was to get possession of a printed wrapper bearing the
name and address of the firm in question. The catalogue, enclosed in
the wrapper, was then sent to a pseudo Englishman living in Holland,
who, almost needless to say, was a German agent.

These reports were then sent in duplicate, one preceding the other
in the space of three days. Fortunately or otherwise--according to
the standpoint taken by interested parties--the first secret
dispatch related to the movements of Peter Barcroft was lost in a
Dutch mail-boat that a German submarine had sent to the bottom. The
second resulted in Ober-leutnant von Loringhoven being dispatched on
a Zeppelin raid with the primary intention of kidnapping the
proscribed Englishman.

Julius von Loringhoven was an officer of the Imperial German Navy.
In his youth he had served before the mast on board several British
coasters with the idea of gaining intimate local knowledge of the
harbours of the land that in due course would be an integral part of
the vast and unassailable German Empire; for, like thousands of
Germans he held the firm belief that the Emperor Wilhelm II was the
rightful heir to the British throne by virtue of his descent through
the eldest child of the late Queen Victoria.

It was on one of these coasting trips that von Loringhoven then a
stripling of seventeen--was within an ace of losing his life.
Ordered aloft on a winter's night to furl the topsail of the
schooner "Pride o' Salcombe," he was benumbed with the piercing cold
as he lay along the lee yard-arm. A burly British seaman saved him
just as he was on the point of relaxing his hold. Gathering him in
his arms the man brought him down on deck, little knowing what
manner of young reptile he was nursing in his bosom. If von
Loringhoven had had any spark of gratitude it had been smothered by
the passion of "frightfulness" as expressed by dropping powerful
explosives upon the defenceless civil population of the country to
one of whose sons he owed his life.

A brief training at Friedrichshaven was followed by an exacting
period at Borkum which qualified von Loringhoven for a series of
flights across the North Sea to the East Coast of England. As yet he
was merely a tyro, gaining practical experience under a veteran
Zeppelin commander. But at last the day came when he was given sole
charge of one of the Kaiser's giant gas-bags.

"Go and raid the counties of Yorkshire and Lincolnshire," were his
superior officer's instructions. "That's a fairly safe game. You'll
find little more than dummy guns against you. Acquit yourself well
and you will be given an opportunity to take part in the forthcoming
gigantic raid upon London."

This was before the time when, as the Huns knew to their cost, the
"swarm of hornets" promised by a former First Lord of the Admiralty
proved their existence.

And now, after twelve months of active Zeppelin service von
Loringhoven was over Lancashire. One part of his mission foiled he
had yet to exhibit Teutonic frightfulness to the dwellers of the
large manufacturing town of Barborough.

The second in command of the Zeppelin was an unter-leutnant of the
name of Klick. It was one of his triumphs to announce that he had
been arrested in England as a spy. That was in those distant pre-war
times. He had been "spotted" by a sentry while in the act of
sketching a fortification in the neighbourhood of an important naval
station, arrested and charged at a police-court. Committed to the
County Assizes he was politely told by the judge that espionage was
dishonourable. Klick smiled inwardly. To him spying was part of an
important German military training--an organised procedure.
Nevertheless he was agreeably surprised when he was allowed to go
with the admonition, "Don't do it again."

Fortunately for Great Britain such misplaced leniency is a thing of
the past. On Unter-leutnant Klick it was entirely thrown away. His
typically German mind read the clemency as a sign of weakness. He
came from a country where the only strength is "force majeur."

"Well, Herr von Eitelwurmer," exclaimed the ober-leutnant after he
had recovered from his surprise. "If you wish to see how our in
comparable Zeppelins set to work you had better station yourself at
this observation scuttle. I will lend you a fur coat."

"Pity you hadn't lent me one long before," growled the spy, as one
of the crew helped him into the warm garment. "Yours is a cold
business, von Loringhoven."

"Not when we get to work," corrected the other with a grim laugh.
"Excitement stirs our blood to boiling point."

A telephone bell tinkled softly. The commander took up the receiver.

"Ach!" he replied. "That is good."

The message was from Unter-leutnant Klick, announcing that the
airship was immediately over the large town of Barborough. Von
Loringhoven glanced at the altitude indicator. It registered 2,000
metres--too great for practical purposes where no danger was to be
anticipated from anti-aircraft guns. The speed of the Zeppelin was
now less than ten miles an hour, just sufficient to keep her
stationary over her objective.

The commander gave an order. A man on duty in the gondola thrust
down a lever, Instantly the gas in several of the ballonets was
withdrawn and forced under great pressure into a strong metal tank.
This answered to the old-fashioned method of releasing gas from a
balloon by means of an escape valve, but with a vast difference. The
hydrogen was not wasted; it was merely stored for further service.

Down dropped the airship to less than a thousand feet. Von
Eitelwurmer, leaning over the sill of the large scuttle, peered
downwards. By means of a pair of powerful night-glasses he could
locate his position with great accuracy. He recognised most of the
conspicuous land marks of Barborough, in spite of their unfamiliar
appearance when viewed from a height. There was the town-hall--a
pile of smoke blackened stonework. The railway station with its web
of steel lines radiating in four different directions; the huge
factories, working day and night at high pressure; the main
thoroughfares, rendered even more pronounced by the blue flashes of
the electric tram-cars. The Zeppelin had the town at its mercy.

Ober-leutnant von Loringhoven was also examining the scene beneath
him. He had no occasion to consult the spy. He knew quite as much as
von Eitelwurmer of the topography of the district; thanks to the
accurate air-maps supplied by the German government.

"Now, watch!" he exclaimed, at the same time holding up four fingers
as a sign to the airman at the firing apparatus to release the
missiles of destruction.

Von Eitelwurmer held his breath. He clearly heard the four metallic
clicks as the man released the bombs at quick intervals. Seven
seconds after the first had left the dropping apparatus a lurid
flash threw the underside of the enormous envelope into an expanse
of reflected light. A roar like the concentration of half a dozen
thunder peals tore the air, followed by the rumbling of falling
masonry. The other explosions took place in rapid succession,
causing the Zeppelin to sway and rock in the violently disturbed
atmosphere.

The place where the bombs had burst was hidden in a thick pall of
smoke and dust. Tongues of red and yellow flames flickered through
the vapour.

"Two more," ordered von Loringhoven.

By this time the Zeppelin, forging ahead, was nearly a quarter of a
mile from the scene of her first attempt. The objective was a purely
conjectural one, for the missiles burst in a street in one of the
poorer quarters of the town.

"Two more!"

The two bombs were released, but only one exploded. The other failed
to detonate, but the raid was over. In a little over a minute and a
half death had been poured upon the unprepared town.

"I can claim the big munitions factory," remarked the ober-leutnant
as he telephoned to the navigating gondola for full speed. "Those
first four had it to a nicety. The others--well, they did some
damage."

The spy smiled.

"Yes; it all helps," he said. "Frightfulness always scores,"

"Realising, as we do, that every English baby is a potential enemy
to Germany," added von Loringhoven. "Not necessarily in a military
sense, but in the forthcoming commercial war."

Von Eitelwurmer glanced at his companion,

"The forthcoming commercial war," he repeated. "Our Emperor will see
to it that there will be no British Empire to threaten our
mercantile supremacy."

The commander of the Zeppelin shrugged his shoulders.

"I trust you are right," he rejoined, "but you do not realise the
big task in front of us. These Englishmen are only just beginning to
bestir themselves. We hoped to have beaten them long ago. Time is no
longer on our side, and----"

Then, realising that his digression was bordering upon dangerous
lines, he broke off.

"And now, von Eitelwurmer, we are homeward bound. In four hours I
hope to shake hands with you on German soil."

The spy merely grunted. He was thinking regretfully of his lost
chance in the share of the twenty thousand marks.




CHAPTER VIII

'MIDST THE SCENE OF RED RUIN


FIVE minutes before the fall of the first bomb,
Flight-Sub-lieutenant Barcroft alighted from a tram-car in the
market square of Barborough.

The stopping of the railway service had upset his calculations, for
instead of the train running into Barborough Station it had come to
a stand still at Wolderton, a little town five miles from his
destination.

"Can't go no further yet awhile, sir," replied a porter in answer to
the flight-sub's enquiry. "They say as 'ow Zeps is about, though I
fancy they won't come to Lancashire, sir. Don't hold wi' these silly
scares mysen."

"Where are we?" asked Barcroft, striving vainly to read the name of
the unlighted station. "Wolderton, sir; if you're for Barborough you
can get a car just outside. They are runnin', Zep, or no Zep."

The young officer alighted, made his way out of the station and
boarded the first northbound car, which in due course deposited him
at Barborough--a stranger in a strange land.

"For Tarleigh, sir?" rejoined a policeman to his question. "Matter
o' four or six miles. No, sir, you'll not be findin' a taxi
to-night, I fancy. Just you go along yon road, take first on your
right then straight on till you come to Chumley Old Road. There
you'll find a car that'll take you as far as Black Pit Brow, and
it'll be forty minutes sharp walking to Tarleigh."

Somewhat bewildered Barcroft set out to follow the constable's
directions. He found himself slipping on the rough and greasy setts,
jostling people in the darkened streets, and barking his shins
against obtrusive door steps. The road was a mean and narrow one--a
short cut to a main thoroughfare. A dank unwholesome smell permeated
the misty air. It struck the young officer as being worse than the
atmosphere of the lower deck of a battleship battened down during a
three-days' gale.

Suddenly the darkness was rent by a terrific flash. The light was so
dazzling that Barcroft was under the impression that it came from
the centre of the street. Stunned by the deafening crash he felt
himself lurching against a wall, amidst a shower of broken glass.

Another explosion followed and then two more. The flight-sub felt
the wall of the house rock with the concussions. He was quite
prepared to see the building collapse under the impact of the
displaced air. Fragments of slates and tiles, mingled with shattered
woodwork, hurtled overhead. Glass tinkled upon the setts. The rumble
of falling masonry was added to the uproar, while flames shot up
from a mound of debris that a brief instant earlier had been the
homes of three English families, and threw a fitful glare upon the
scene of destruction.

"Factory explosion, I suppose," thought Barcroft. "Can't be a Zep.,
or I should have heard her engines."

He put his hand to his cheek. It was warm and moist. Blood was
welling from a deep gash. He hardly noticed it. His attention was
attracted by the shouts and screams of the terrified inhabitants of
the neighbourhood--those whose houses having escaped annihilation
but were within the danger zone, had fled pell-mell into the
streets.

Other crashes followed, but at a greater distance.

"Then it is a Zep., by Jove!" declared the young officer. For the
first time he realised his helplessness. He was virtually one of the
thousands of civilians unable to raise a hand in self-defence
against the cowardly night-raider. A Tommy in a trench with only a
rifle--an almost useless weapon against an aircraft of any
description--has the satisfaction that he is armed. He is willing to
take his chance. But here the townsfolk were utterly at a loss to
defend themselves, and it was sorry consolation to be told by the
authorities that the inhabitants of raided districts are only
sharing the dangers to which the troops in the trenches are exposed.

"If only I were up aloft with young Kirkwood," thought Barcroft.
"We'd make the beggars skip out of that gas-bag. Perhaps some day--"

A woman, with her shawl wrapped tightly round her head, came
hurrying in the opposite direction to which the stream of terrified
people forced its way.

"Eh!" she exclaimed. "An' I left t'owld mon's supper on t' stove.
I'll be fair angry if 'tis spoilt."

It was genuine anxiety. Even in the midst of the scene of
destruction her thoughts dwelt upon the little cares of everyday
domesticity.

With the sailor's typical eagerness to render aid Barcroft hurried
down the street. Already the ebb-tide of fugitives was thinning and
giving place to the flood-tide of willing helpers. Here and there
men staggered and groaned, bleeding from serious wounds caused by
the flying fragments of the deadly missiles. Here and there came
others supporting or carrying victims unable to help themselves--
stalwart men, frail women and puny children reduced in the fraction
of a second to mangled wrecks.

Pungent, asphyxiating fumes drifted slowly down the narrow
thoroughfare, while the glare of the burning buildings threw an
eerie light upon the surroundings.

In the street not one panel of glass remained intact. Cast-iron
stack-pipes were riddled with holes cut as cleanly as with a drill.
Brick walls were perforated like paper; stone-steps--the "scouring"
of which is a solemn rite with Lancashire folk--were chipped and
splintered like glass. Doors were burst open as if with a
sledge-hammer. And this was fifty yards or more from the scene of
the actual explosion.

Where the first bomb had fallen nothing remained of the house except
a mound of smoking rubbish. The two adjoining buildings were cut
away from top to bottom almost as evenly as if severed by a saw. In
one the roof was exposed on the underside. The slates were still in
position but riddled like a sieve. So violent was the force with
which the flying fragments were projected upwards that the fragile
slates were perforated before they had time to crack or be dislodged
from the rafters.

In the house on the other adjoining side the parting wall had
vanished, leaving the remaining walls and flooring practically
intact. A fire was still burning in the kitchen grate, and on it an
iron pot was simmering. In front of the fire were three pairs of
"clogs" of varying sizes--the footgear of a family that was no
longer in existence.

It was the same story. The raid from a military point of view was of
no consequence. The munitions factory, in spite of von Loringhoven's
assurances, had been missed--missed handsomely.

The flight-sub did not linger at this particular spot. Human aid was
unavailing as far as those ruined houses were concerned, but on the
other side of the street groans and cries of pain told him that here
at least there was work to be done.

Through an open doorway Barcroft dashed. The woodwork of the door
was in splinters. Part of the floor had vanished. The place was full
of smoke, while gas from a severed pipe was burning furiously.

Grasping a large fragment of paving-stone the flight-sub battered
the pipe.

"Iron, worse luck," he exclaimed. "Wonder where the meter is?"

He discovered it just above the door. In the absence of a key to
turn off the inflammable gas he knocked the lead pipe flat. The
flame began to die down until it gave a fairly safe illumination.

Up the rickety stairs the young officer made his way. With smarting
eyes and irritating throat he groped through the stifling smoke,
guided by the cries of the injured victims. The room was feebly
lighted by a nightlight set in a basin of water. The light flickered
in the breeze that swept in through the glazeless window, while its
intensity was even more diminished by the eddying smoke. Yet it was
sufficient to enable Barcroft to take in his surroundings.

The ceiling had fallen. Plaster and broken glass littered the floor,
and every object presented a flat, face-upward surface. On the walls
were crude prints hanging at grotesque angles and ripped by flying
fragments. Pieces of broken furniture were everywhere in evidence.

In one corner of the room was a bed. One leg had been torn off,
causing it to touch the floor. On the bed was a grey-haired woman,
groaning feebly and with her forehead dabbled in blood.

She opened her eyes as Barcroft approached, then raising one hand
pointed to the side of the bed. There was a cradle that had hitherto
escaped his notice, and in it was a baby of but a few months old.
Although the old woman could not speak she made it known that the
rescuer should first save her grandchild.

Even in that scene of desolation Barcroft could not bring himself to
lift the baby from its cot. Dimly he fancied that he might harm it.
He hadn't the faintest notion how to hold an infant of tender years.

Lifting the cot bodily he bore it with its contents down the stairs
and out into the night. By this time other rescuers were hard at
work. Two of them seeing the flight-sub issuing from the house came
up to him.

"D'ye want a hand, sir?" they asked.

The uniform imparted an air of authority, and instinctively the men
realised the fact. True the naval rig was foreign to them. For all
they knew Barcroft might be a sanitary inspector or a
school-attendance officer, but his peaked cap and naval blue coat
denoted an official of some sort, and, in cases of this description,
the distinction carries weight.

"Yes, there's a woman injured in that house," replied the
flight-sub, setting down his burden. One of the men bent over the
cradle and drew back the covering. Then he hastily replaced it.

"Might have saved yourself the trouble, sir," he gulped. "Those
baby-killing swine! If that cursed Zep, should happen to fall
anywhere round about and any of the devils are left alive, I bet my
last shilling the women-folk o' Barborough 'ud tear 'em limb from
limb. An' serve 'em right. Lead on, sir."

Not until the last of the living victims of the outrage had been
removed from this section of the bombed district did Barcroft and
his willing helpers desist from their arduous labours. Nothing more
could be done until daybreak. Police guarded the approaches to the
devastated street, while firemen stood by, ready at the first sign
to tackle a fresh outburst from the still smouldering ruins.

"Suppose I ought to try for an hotel," soliloquised the flight-sub.
"I don't know. I'm in a horrible mess. Feel like a dustman or a
scavenger. Perhaps I'd better carry on. The governor might be a bit
anxious if I don't."

Receiving fresh directions Barcroft stepped out briskly. Taxis and
even tramcars were now out of the question.

"Most confusing place I've struck for many a day," he muttered. "I
feel completely out of my bearings. I'm supposed to be going north;
it's my belief I'm making in a southerly direction."

Vainly he looked aloft to "verify his position by stellar
observation." Not a star was visible. He was now clear of the town.
The road ran steeply up a bleak hillside and was bounded by rough
stone walls. Doubtless there were plenty of houses scattered about
in the surrounding valleys, but these were not in evidence. Every
light still burning had been carefully screened. It was a case of
shutting the stable door after the horse had been stolen.

Presently he reached the junction of two fork roads, either of which
might lead to Tarleigh. A tantalising sign-post afforded no
information, for upon swarming up the post the flight-sub was unable
to read the weather-beaten directions.

"What on earth possessed the pater to hang out in this benighted
spot I cannot imagine!" exclaimed Barcroft disgustedly. "Suppose I
must wait here in the hope that some one will be passing this way.
It seems the safest chance."




CHAPTER IX

BETTY


"THAT'S more hopeful," ejaculated Flight sub-lieutenant Barcroft. "I
hear footsteps."

For perhaps half a minute he listened intently. He was not mistaken
in his surmise, but there was still the haunting doubt that the
benighted wayfarer might be proceeding in a different direction. But
no; the footsteps came nearer and nearer. It was not the firm tread
of a man, nor the clatter of a pair of Lancashire clogs.

"A woman, by Jove!" muttered Billy. "I'll have to be jolly careful
not to give her a fright. Rummy idea having to hail a craft of that
sort at this time of the morning. Wonder what brings her out in this
isolated spot?"

In his anxiety not to unduly alarm the approaching woman, the
flight-sub began to walk in her direction. It was, he decided, a
better course than to stand back until she passed.

"Excuse me," he said touching his cap, "but can you direct me to
Tarleigh?"

"Yes, I am going part of the way," was the reply in a decidedly
clear and pleasant voice, which spoke with perfect composure. "If
you like I'll go with you as far as Two Elms. It is then a straight
road."

"Thank you," said Barcroft, falling into step with his unknown
benefactor. "You see, I'm quite a stranger here."

"Hang it all!" he mused. "That voice seems familiar. A trim little
craft, too, I should imagine, although I can't see her face. Wonder
who she is?"

"You are a naval officer, I see," remarked the girl.

"Yes," admitted Billy. "On leave and going to a home I've never
seen. This raid affair made me late."

"And so it did me," added his companion. "By the bye, where was your
home before?"

"At Alderdene in Kent," replied Barcroft, somewhat
taken aback at the question. "Why do you ask?"

"I thought so," was the composed reply. "And your name is
Barcroft--Billy Barcroft."

"By Jove!" exclaimed the young officer. "How on earth do you know
that? I'm afraid I don't recognise you."

"You always had a bad memory for certain things, Mr. Barcroft," the
girl laughingly reminded him. "I felt almost positive it was you
directly you spoke. You see, the uniform and you have a most
characteristic helped me, manner of speaking."

"Have I?" asked Billy, still mystified. "And you have a good memory,
I presume?"

"Fairly reliable," admitted the girl.

"Then let us hope that your recollections of me are of a favourable
character," continued the flight-sub. "Now, tell me; what is your
name?"

"There is no immediate hurry for that," she protested. "Before I
reveal my identity suppose I remind you of some of your girl friends
at Alderdene--Ada Forrester, for instance."

Yes, Billy remembered Ada Forrester very well--a short, podgy kid,
he reflected, who by no possible chance could have developed into
the tall, graceful girl by his side.

"And Betty Deringhame," continued his inquisitor. "One of the noble
army of flappers. Rather a shallow-headed kid and a bit of a tomboy,
wasn't she?"

"A tomboy--yes," agreed the flight-sub, "but I cannot admit the
other. We used to be good pals, but that was three years ago. I was
in my Third Term at Dartmouth when her people left Alderdene."

"You taught her to signal in Morse, I think," pursued the girl. "You
used to exchange messages until that little pig, Pat o'Hara, the
vicar's son, learnt it too and told tales to her mother."

They walked in silence for some moments. Barcroft had almost
forgotten his surroundings. His thoughts had taken him back to those
far off, pre-war days in sunny Kent.

"Yes," he said at length in his deep manly voice. "It is absolutely
great to be with Betty Deringhame again."

"So you've guessed at last," said Betty. "It's a strange world,
isn't it?"

"And a mighty pleasant one, barring the Huns and others of that
crowd," added Billy. "Now, tell me, what are you doing here?"

"Walking with an old acquaintance upon a long road that leads to Two
Elms and Tarleigh."

"Obvious--we will not dispute the fact," rejoined the young officer.
"To put the question in more exact terms: where are you living, and
what brought you to this part of England?"

"I think I said I was living at Two Elms. To be more precise, at
Mill View. That doesn't sound particularly cheerful, does it? We
came here to live after we left Alderdene, shortly after war broke
out. I am now employed in a munitions works."

"Munitions works! Whatever are you doing that for?" asked Billy
surprised beyond measure. It seemed incredible that the slim,
light-hearted girl of his boyhood days should be toiling in this
manner.

"Because I had to do something," replied Betty simply. "We lost
almost everything. Besides, it was an opportunity to do something
practical for the war. People of all social grades do, you know."

"I'm sorry about your financial misfortune," said Barcroft
sympathetically.

"And so am I--very," added the girl frankly. "But it is unnecessary
to enter into details. This is my home."

They came to a standstill in front of a row of two-storeyed houses.
Owing to the darkness it was impossible for the flight-sub to form
an accurate idea of the pretensions of the place; but at any rate it
was a pitiful contrast to "The Old Rectory," the Deringhames' house
at Alderdene.

"The works were nearly hit by the bombs," continued Betty. "We had
just started the night-shifts, but the girls were sent off after the
raid was over. One of them was so frightened that I had to take her
home. That's why I was late."

"Fortunately for me," declared Billy earnestly.

"Yes, a stranger would have some difficulty to find his way on a
night like this," said Betty inconsequently. "You are on a straight
road now, until you come to a railway arch. Just beyond you'll
notice a line of overhead wires if you keep your eyes open. Just
beyond is a path on the left. That will take you past Ladybird
Fold."

"I'll call in the morning," said Barcroft.

"We--that is, mother and I, will be pleased to see you," replied the
girl. "Goodnight--Billy."

For the rest of the distance the flight-sub trod literally on air
until he reached the path that Betty had mentioned. Tripping over a
slab of stone he came to earth in a double sense.

"Dash it all!" he exclaimed as he picked himself up. "Has the
governor defended Lady bird Fold with entanglements and pitfalls? By
Jove, this is a night!"

Groping his way Billy ascended the steeply sloping cinder path
across the meadow. Another stile and a broad stretch of rugged
ground had to be negotiated before he saw a dark mass looming up in
front. By this time he was feeling particularly stiff, hungry and
cold. The keen air of the hillside made him regret the absence of
his airman's leather coat.

"Wonder if this is the show?" he mused as he surveyed the isolated
and apparently deserted building.

He stopped and listened intently. Voices were heard within, behind
the thickly-curtained window. He recognised one of the speakers.

"That's the governor, right enough," he exclaimed, all traces of
annoyance vanishing at the pleasurable discovery.

The outer door was unlocked. Billy threw it open and burst into the
well-lighted study.

"Cheer-o, pater!" he exclaimed. "Sorry I'm late. Some night, eh,
what?"




CHAPTER X

THE SEAPLANE'S QUEST


"S' LONG, you festive blighters! Good luck!"

With this typically airman's farewell ringing in his ears
Flight-lieutenant John Fuller, D.S.O., clambered lightly into the
pilot's seat of Seaplane 445B.

Owing to Billy Barcroft's absence on leave a change round had been
effected in the composition of the crews of the seaplane carrier
"Hippodrome's" little nest of hornets, and as a result Fuller found
himself in company with Bobby Kirkwood as his observer.

It was the night of the Barborough raid. The "Hippodrome," bound for
the Firth of Forth, had picked up a wireless when some where off the
Yorkshire coast, reporting the presence of four Zeppelins.
Aeroplanes and seaplanes attached to the north-eastern bases had
already ascended in the hope of cutting off the returning
air-pirates, and in conjunction with these operations the
"Hippodrome" was about to send out her airmen to grapple with the
enemy in the darkness.

It was indeed a formidable and hazardous undertaking. The returning
Zeppelins would certainly take advantage of the stiff westerly
breeze. By keeping to a great altitude and shutting off their
engines they drift, silent and unseen, over the East Coast, until it
is deemed advisable to restart the motors. Even the disadvantage
caused by the immense bulk of the vulnerable envelope would be
discounted by its invisibility in the darkness of the night.

The Zeppelins could keep "afloat" by the buoyancy of their
hydrogen-charged ballonets; the aeroplanes, being heavier than air,
could not, except for a comparatively brief vol-plane, without the
aid of their propellers, The roar of the latter would betray their
presence to the watchers on the silent airship.

Altogether the seaplane's task savoured of a wild goose chase, only
by a pure fluke might one of the aeroplanes "spot" one of the
returning raiders, but on the remote chance of being able to do so
the "Hippodrome's" aerial flotilla set out on its hazardous flight.

For three-quarters of an hour No 445B flew to and fro parallel to
the coast. It was bitterly cold. At a minimum height of five
thousand feet was a vast bank of clouds that drifted steadily
eastwards.

Occasionally Kirkwood took down a wireless report from the parent
ship and handed it to the pilot. Hardly a word was spoken. The voice
tube was resorted to only once in that forty-five minutes.

"I'm going further out," announced Fuller. "We'll clear that patch
of clouds."

With her motors purring rhythmically and the pistons throbbing in
perfect tune the seaplane swung round and settled in an easterly
direction, the while climbing steadily. Behind her was the tail end
of a nimbus; above, through a vast rift the stars twinkled in the
cold sky; beneath, thousands of feet down, was the sea, its vicious,
steep waves invisible in the kindly darkness.

Suddenly, from the enshrouding masses of cloud, a dark,
symmetrically elongated shape shot rapidly into the starlight. It
was a Zeppelin in full flight. Columns of smoke were issuing from
her exhausts, but the throb of the seaplane's motors drowned the
drone of her powerful engines.

"Good!" ejaculated Fuller, actuating the rudder bar with his feet
and elevating the ailerons. "That's our bird. If they don't spot us
before they gain that bank of clouds, she's ours."

Eagerly yet methodically Kirkwood brought the Lewis gun ready for
action. It was to be the last resource in attack, to be used only if
the seaplane failed to gain the aerial "weathergage"--a superior
altitude to that of her bulky antagonist.

For the present the odds were level as regards speed. The seaplane's
greater rate of flight was counterbalanced by the fact that she had
to climb in order to get above her intended prey and drop a bomb
upon the immense and fragile bulk of the Zeppelin's envelope.

And Fuller was achieving his object. Already Seaplane 445B was
passing diagonally upwards through the raider's smoking trail, the
oil tinged vapour from her exhaust pipes. Every moment tended to
bring the protruding stern portion of the Zep, betwixt her crew and
the steadily climbing aeroplane, thus diminishing the risk of
detection.

Fuller was about to check the upward climb and overhaul his
antagonist when the Zeppelin appeared almost to stand on end. The
whole of her upper surface was exposed to the British airmen's view.
Then, almost simultaneously the seaplane seemed to be following.

It was a form of optical delusion. She was still climbing steadily.
The Zeppelin had spotted her small and dangerous foe. Dropping a
quantity of ballast _en bloc_ the airship shot vertically upward to
a terrific height. It was this motion that had given Fuller the
impression that the seaplane was dropping.

"She's twigged us!" he shouted through the voice tube. "Let her have
it."

The A.P. promptly began to let loose a whole drum of ammunition. The
Zeppelin was instantly enveloped in a cloud of smoke. Into the pall
of vapour the Lewis gun pumped its nickel missiles, yet no crippled
flaming fabric crashed helplessly to the surface of the sea.

The smoke was a "blind." Fuller realised that. Screening herself by
the dense vapour the Zeppelin had ascended almost vertically until
safe from observation in the dense clouds overhead.

"Missed her, by Jove!" ejaculated the flight-lieutenant.

"More than she did us," replied Kirkwood coolly, in spite of his
keen disappointment, for a small-calibre bullet had ripped the
ear-pad of his airman's helmet. Whether his ear was hit he knew not.
The intense cold had numbed all sense of feeling. The shot was
evidently from a Maxim and one of many, but in the darkness it was
impossible to see whether the seaplane had sustained any damage.
Judging by her behaviour Kirkwood thought not.

Yet Fuller was loath to discontinue the chase. On and on he flew,
further and further away from the "Hippodrome" and the shores of
Britain, vainly hoping to pick up his quarry when the Zeppelin again
emerged from the cloud banks.

"I'll swear she's shut off power and is floating somewhere in that
cloud," he soliloquised. "Well, I'll have a shot at it, even if we
charge smack into the brute."

With this desperate yet praiseworthy resolution the
flight-lieutenant swung his frail command about and began to climb
steadily towards the mass of dark clouds. Ten minutes later the
seaplane entered the lower edge of the nimbus. It was like tearing
through a dense fog. All sense of direction was lost. Whether the
machine was climbing, banking or descending was a matter of
conjecture, since the darkness and the moisture made it impossible
to consult the aeronautical instrument. Ahead was nothing but an
opaque curtain of mist. On either side the tips of the planes merged
into invisibility. Only astern were there any light-sparks from the
hot exhaust throwing a faint, ruddy glare upon the wisps of trailing
vapour that followed, circling and writhing, in the wake of the
swiftly-moving machine.

"If the Huns are anywhere in this stuff they'll get in a rare funk
even if we don't run across them," thought Fuller, Unmindful of the
danger of his own seeking he mentally pictured the panic-stricken
condition of the raider, as hearing the roar of the seaplane's
motors and unable to locate its position, they were in momentary
peril of being rammed by an object tearing at ninety miles an hour
through an optically impenetrable darkness.

Kirkwood, too, realised the risk. With nerves a-tingle he awaited
developments. Faith in Fuller's prowess gave him confidence. With
one hand resting lightly on the lever operating the bomb-dropping
gear he waited, ready at the first signal to release the missiles of
annihilation.

Suddenly the muffled roar of the exhaust gave place to a series of
rapid explosions. Instinctively Kirkwood likened it to a boy rasping
a stick along a row of iron palings. At the same time a succession
of spurts of flame streaked overhead. The seaplane had only just
scraped the underside of her antagonist. The upper planes had missed
the Zeppelin's 'midship gondola by inches, and the flashes he had
seen were from the airship's machine-gun as the Huns blazed
furiously and erratically at their unseen but unpleasantly audible
foe.

Up spun 445B, until she seemed to stand almost on her tail. Then
tilting until she was in imminent danger of side-slipping, she
sought to make good her discovery. Vainly Fuller circled and
circled, striving to pierce the vault of inky blackness. The
Zeppelin was no longer there. Whether she had thrown out some more
ballast or had trusted to her motors to bear her away from the
unseen terror he knew not.

He was not a man to admit defeat readily.

"I'll make 'em have cold feet in any case," he decided, as he
removed his mist-dimmed goggles and peered into the luminous compass
bowl. "Due east till we get out of this cloud, and then I'll wait
for the brute."

Unfortunately, as far as he was concerned, Fuller's decision could
not be carried out, for from no apparent cause the motors raced at
unprecedented speed for a brief instant and then stopped.

The contrast from the noise of the engine to the stillness of the
upper regions was the feature that impressed him most. The seaplane,
at a height of ten thousand feet, and in the midst of a dense cloud,
was beginning to fall. Vainly the pilot strove to avoid the
nerve-racking "tail-spin." His sense of direction gone he could only
jiggle the joy-stick in the hope that the terrific headlong, erratic
downward rush might be checked.

Kirkwood, secured by the broad leather safety strap, also realised
the danger. He was conscious of being whirled round and round with
his body in a horizontal position. He could feel the rush of air as
the seaplane dropped, otherwise silently, towards the sea. Unless
the machine could be got under control their fate was sealed. The
frail floats would be pulverised and splintered with the terrific
impact, and the wreckage, weighted down by the heavy motor, would
sink like a stone.

For sixty seconds--it seemed like sixty hours--the uncontrollable
plunge continued, then like a flash the tail-spinning machine
emerged from the under side of the cloud into the comparatively
clear atmosphere. With an almost superhuman effort Fuller readjusted
the sorely tried ailerons. The resistance on the planes was
tremendous, but the fabric and the tension wires were British made,
with a sickening jerk the seaplane described a complete loop. In the
nick of time the resourceful pilot caught her on the "swing" and
flattened out.

Once the motion was sufficiently retarded he commenced a vol-plane.
It was, perhaps, prolonging the agony, since there could be little
hope of rescue on a dark night, even if the waves did not overwhelm
the frail craft.

"Stand by!" shouted Fuller. "Look down--on your right."

The A.P., well nigh breathless through the pressure of the belt upon
his ribs, leant over the side of the chassis. Two thousand feet
below, with her drawn-out shape glittering dully in the starlight,
was another Zeppelin. The first, silhouetted against the faint
light, had presented a black shape; this one showed up clearly in
her aluminium garb against the darkness. She was proceeding rapidly
at a height of about three thousand feet, and now less than a
thousand beneath the vol-planing British craft.

"Our luck's in!" exclaimed the flight-lieutenant, his thoughts only
for the immediate present. It would be sufficient to consider the
end of that terrific vol-plane when the moment arrived. For the
present it was not even a secondary matter--it did not enter into
the intrepid airman's calculation.

"Stand by!" roared Fuller again. "For Heaven's sake don't miss."

Down swept the noiseless biplane upon its unsuspecting prey.
According to Fuller's plans he would approach the Zeppelin in the
same vertical plane but at an acute angle--both aircraft proceeding
in the same direction. This would give the bombs a better target
than if the seaplane was cutting across the path of the airship.

So swift was the descent that the Zeppelin appeared to be rising in
the air to meet her opponent. Her huge, long-drawn-out mass grew
bigger and bigger until it seemed as if a miss would be an
impossibility.

"Now!" shouted the flight-lieutenant.

With a swift, decided movement Kirkwood thrust over the
releasing-gear lever. There was no resistance. Unaccountably the
flexible wire operating the release catch had been detached. Without
a moment's hesitation the A.P. unbuckled his belt and, bending,
groped on the floor of the fuselage for the business-end of the
wire. Just then the Zep, opened fire with her machine-gun.

Fuller, leaning over the side waited in eager expectation of the
anticipated explosion, quite prepared to find the seaplane capsized
under the blast of the terrific detonation. But there was none, and
already the vol-planing machine was beyond and on a level with the
Zeppelin. Without the aid of the motor it was impossible to return
to the attack.

Savagely Fuller swung round with the intention of demanding the
reason of his observer's blunder. To his surprise the A.P., was not
to be seen.

"Plugged!" ejaculated the pilot. "Well, here goes; another two
minutes will decide."

The Zeppelin was now out of his mind. His whole attention was
devoted to the impending impact with the surface of the water. Every
thing depended upon his skill and judgment, with a fair element of
luck thrown in. In the darkness it was impossible to gauge with any
degree of certainty the height of the descending machine above the
sea. If the pilot "flattened out" too soon the seaplane would fall
like a stone; if, on the other hand the vol-plane were maintained
the fraction of a minute too long the impact would either result in
the shattering of the floats or in the machine describing a
somersault--possibly both.

With a double plash the flat-bottomed floats smacked the waves. The
"landing" was successfully accomplished, but the unpleasant fact
remained that Fuller and Kirkwood were afloat in a frail cockleshell
in a fairly "jumpy" sea and on a pitch-dark night. Without water and
provisions and with no aid in sight and already sixty miles or more
from land they were rapidly drifting out to sea nearer and nearer
the hostile shores of Germany.




CHAPTER XI

THE TERRORS OF THE AIR


SIEGFRIED VON EITELWURMER, the German Secret Service Agent, sat and
shivered in the after-gondola of the returning Zeppelin. He was not
feeling at all happy. Apart from the physical discomfort--for in
addition to the effect of the cold he was under the influence of
air-sickness--his mind was harassed by wellfounded thoughts that
something might happen to the gigantic but obviously frail gas-bag.

Like most Germans his faith in Count Zeppelin's cowardly and
diabolical invention was unshaken--so long as he could remain on
terra-firma. But whereas the stay-at-home Hun satisfied himself by
reading of the colossal achievements of the German aerial fleet, von
Eitelwurmer knew by actual observation that the raids failed to
justify one-tenth, nay, one-thousandth part of the claims put
forward by the authorities at Berlin.

In pre-war days he had seen experimental Zeppelins dashed to pieces
in a vain attempt to regain the shed. He had seen others destroyed
by fire. He remembered seeing a "leader" in a British newspaper in
which it was solemnly declared that the sympathies of the civilised
world will go out to the aged Count in the hour of his grief at the
failure of his life's work.

And now, in addition to the ordinary risks of aviation the returning
airship was liable at any moment to the attack of the "hornets" that
were known to be on the look-out for the raiders. Here he was,
carried off against his will, suspended like Mahomet's tomb 'twixt
heaven and earth, and faced with the prospect of a swift journey to
a place not included in the above category.

Ober-leutnant von Loringhoven left his passenger severely alone. For
one thing the commander's attention was almost entirely taken up
with the work of navigating his cumbersome craft back to the
Fatherland; for another he mistrusted spies, even when they were
Germans and notwithstanding the fact that he himself had indulged in
that dangerous pastime. But there was this difference. Von
Loringhoven was a naval officer while von Eitelwurmer was a
civilian. He had heard of German spies renouncing their allegiance
and acting for the country in which they were to be working on
behalf of the authorities at Berlin.

The spy had been accommodated with a camp-stool. On either side of
the narrow compartment was a window fitted with double plate-glass
windows. The for'ard bulkhead was pierced by a door leading to the
cat-walk or suspended bridge communicating with both the 'midships
and for'ard gondolas. Aft was another bulkhead separating a portion
of the compartment from that containing the motors actuating the two
rearmost propellers. The floor was in a state of continual tremor
under the pulsations of the engines and the rattle of the two
endless chains that transmitted the power to the two outboard
propellers.

The limited space was still further taken up by two machine-guns
mounted on aluminium alloy pedestals and capable of being trained
through a fairly broad arc. By these stood four of the crew, ready
at the first alarm to lower the glass panes and bring the weapons
into action. The men were taciturn and obviously nervous. When
flying over the unprotected towns and dropping their murderous
cargoes they could be boisterous enough, but now, knowing that they
had to run the gauntlet, they were feeling particularly cowed. The
fear of being paid back in their own coin--a possibility that alone
makes the Hun howl--gripped them, and held them in a state of
prolonged mental torture.

Presently at an order communicated by telephone from the foremost
gondola, the machine-gunners lowered the sashes of the windows. The
temperature, already -2 degrees C. fell rapidly to -10 degrees C.
Warm air-currents from the motor-room drifted through gaps in the
partition and condensing fell upon the floor in the form of globules
of ice.

Up and up climbed the Zeppelin. She was approaching the East Coast.

Von Eitelwurmer, overcoming his torpor, went to the window. One of
the men was about to motion him to his seat, when another touched
him on the shoulder and pointed.

Far below the whole country was in darkness. The spy could not tell
whether it was land or water. Away to the southward a group of
searchlights swept the sky, the beams impinging upon a bank of
clouds that floated at a height of nearly a mile. Still further away
more electric rays swayed slowly to and fro. At intervals the
searchlights of the nearmost station crossed those of the one more
remote, while in turn these effected a luminous exchange with rays
still further away. As far as the eye could see there appeared to be
a continuous barrage of light through which the returning raider
must pass before gaining her base.

At an order the motors were switched off. Almost absolute silence
succeeded the noisy roar of the seven 240-horse-power engines. The
airship, at the mercy of the winds, began to turn broadside on to
the aerial drift, yet the while, by means of ballast thrown
overboard and the release of more compressed hydrogen from the
cylinders into the ballonets, was steadily climbing.

It was von Loringhoven's aim to ascend until the Zeppelin was above
the clouds. Screened from those dangerous searchlights the airship
would then drift over the coast-line until such times as it would be
deemed safe to restart the motors.

With the altitude gauge hovering at 4,000 metres the raider found
herself just above the natural screen. The belt of clouds was not
more than three hundred feet in height--sufficient to hide her from
the earth, yet transparent enough to allow the rays of the
searchlight to penetrate the vapour.

To the spy the outlook resembled the view from a railway carriage
when dense clouds of steam waft past the windows. So powerful were
the rays of the searchlights that the stratum of the vapour was
flooded with silvery luminosity, while--ominous sign--the beams no
longer swayed to and fro as previously, but hung with sinister
persistence upon the bank of clouds with which the airship hoped to
screen herself from observation.

Even as von Eitelwurmer looked a huge dark shadow eclipsed the
concentrated beams. It was moving slowly at a rate hardly exceeding
that of the airship. For that reason the object could not be an
aeroplane. Perhaps it was some deadly invention that the English had
brought into action against the Zeppelins--a sort of aerial torpedo
steered by wireless electric waves?

The machine-gunners saw it too. The last atom of courage literally
oozed out of their boots, yet almost automatically they gripped the
handle that would liberate shots at the rate of 500 a minute if to
the voidless night.

It was fortunate for them that they did not open fire. The shadow
was that of another Zeppelin that at less than a hundred feet below
was slowly forging ahead in a southerly direction under the action
of her throttled-down motors, and with her exhausts carefully
muffled.

In five minutes the novel Zeppelin eclipse was over, although at no
time was the actual airship to be seen. She had previously been
fired upon by the anti-aircraft guns on the coast and was now
cautiously smelling her way through the clouds in order to find an
undefended gap in the defences.

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.




CHAPTER XII

THE RAIDER'S RETURN


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 communique 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 communiques 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 usual _plaisanteries_, 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 Jutland_
he 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 they _do_ find 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.




CHAPTER XIII

EXIT SEAPLANE No. 445B


"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."




CHAPTER XIV

BUTTERFLY


"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
pounds; 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.




CHAPTER XV

RECALLED BY WIRE


"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.

"Have you seen anything of the 'Hippodrome's' boat?" inquired Billy
of a petty officer on duty on the jetty."

"'Hippodrome's' boat, sir?" repeated the man. "Why, the 'Hippodrome'
got under way a couple of hours ago, along with the Seventh
Destroyer Division, The Ninth's just off, sir."

Barcroft rapidly reviewed the situation. Experience had taught him
that there are often two ways of doing things in the Service--the
official and the non-official. To be strictly in accord with the
precedent he should have reported himself to the Admiral, giving his
reasons why he missed his ship and getting a smart "rap over the
knuckles." On the other hand he might be able to enlist the
sympathies of one of the officers of the Ninth Destroyer Division
and get a passage--provided the boats were proceeding to the same
rendezvous. He resolved to put the latter proposition into effect;
failing that, he would have to fall back upon the official routine.

His luck was in. As he hurried across the caisson on his way to the
jetty where the destroyers were berthed he overtook a lieutenant
commander, whom he recognised as Terence Aubyn, a particular friend
of Flight-lieutenant Fuller.

"By all means," replied Aubyn when Barcroft had explained the
circumstances and requested a passage. "We're pretty certain to fall
in with the 'Hippodrome,' although I have as yet no idea of the
position of the rendezvous. In fact, I have a couple of her men on
board now. They got adrift in a copper punt last night, and were
only picked up after the ship had left."

"No further news of Fuller, I'm afraid?" remarked Barcroft.

"Not a whisper," replied the lieutenant-commander as he ran briskly
up the steeply sloping "brow" to the quarter-deck of the destroyer
"Audax."

And thus Flight-sub-lieutenant Barcroft found himself on board one
of the newest type of destroyers bound for an unknown rendezvous
somewhere in the North Sea.




CHAPTER XVI

CAPTIVES IN A SUBMARINE


ON being hauled on board the German submarine Fuller and Kirkwood
were sternly ordered to go below, their captors indicating a small
hatchway fifteen feet for'ard of the conning-tower.

The prisoners had no option. They descended the almost vertical
steel ladder and found themselves in practically the bow compartment
of the vessel. It was the crew space of the submarine mine-layer,
for the craft, on which was painted the number UC49, was not fitted
with torpedo tubes, nor did she carry guns of the "disappearing
mountings" type. Her part was to sneak out of the Elbe, cruise on
the surface whenever practicable, diving only when any strange
vessel hove in sight. Her cargo had consisted of forty metal
cylinders stowed aft--mines of the most recent type--but having sown
her harvest of death and destruction, regardless whether an enemy or
a neutral vessel fell a victim to the deadly peril, she was on her
way back to the Fatherland.

The compartment in which Fuller and his companion found themselves
was about thirty feet in length and fifteen at its maximum diameter,
which was at the after end. For'ard it tapered, at first gradually,
then sharply, until it terminated at a bulkhead close to the bows.
In the lower part of the recess were the anchors and cables, capable
of being lowered or hauled by means of elaborate mechanism which was
controlled from within. The upper portion of the bow compartment
consisted of a large fresh-water tank. Round the crew space were
lockers that served a double purpose: besides containing the effects
of the men they were used as seats. Hooks were bolted to the
cambered deck-beams in order to sling hammocks--in fact, half a
dozen hammocks were at that time occupied--and mess-tables.

Against the after bulkhead was a small partitioned-off place that
served as the cook's galley, the stove being heated by electricity.
While running awash the fumes were carried off by means of a funnel
that projected a few inches above the deck, which was fitted with a
watertight cover that could be operated from the conning-tower when
the submarine was trimmed for diving. Yet in spite of the
ventilation the place reeked vilely of a variety of odours. Fuller
wondered what the atmosphere must be like when UC49 was submerged.

In addition to the sleeping occupants of the hammocks, who by their
restlessness even in slumber showed signs of the mental strain, the
crew space was occupied by three fairhaired, fresh-featured
Frisians, who regarded the captives with scant curiosity and, after
the first five minutes, seemed to ignore the Englishmen entirely.

"May as well make the best of things," remarked Fuller. "I know the
ropes a bit--been through it before. Take your wet clothes off, old
man. Keep a tight hold of your personal gear. We'll see if we can't
persuade that fat chap in the galley to put our things to dry."

"They would dry on us in this hot show," observed Kirkwood. "Suppose
we are sent for?"

"Then we are," added the flight-lieutenant grimly. "We'll have to
grin and bear it. All the same, I'm not going to act as a human
clothes horse while my gear is drying, so here goes."

The German cook seemed anxious to oblige, in spite of a muttered
protest from one of the crew.

"My broder on der 'Blucher' vos," he explained. "Englische him pick
up and well treat. Him write an' tell me so. Thus your clothes make
dry."

Although the hatchway was closed and secured the submarine was still
running awash, lifting sluggishly as she forged ahead at a modest
fifteen knots. A couple of hours passed, and no attempt was made on
the part of the vessel's officers to interrogate their prisoners.

"For one thing we are clothed and, let us hope, in our right minds,"
observed Fuller as the pair redressed in their now dry clothing,
dispensing, however, with their leather jackets, which were as stiff
as a board and white with sea-salt.

"Much more of this would drive me out of my mind," protested
Kirkwood. "Give me the freedom of the air any day. Suppose this old
hooker bumps into a mine?"

"Pull yourself together, man," said the flight-lieutenant sharply.
"It's all one big risk, I admit, but for heaven's sake don't give
these fellows a chance to think we've cold feet!"

The A.P. stiffened his upper lip.

"By Jove, I won't!" he exclaimed.

"The youngster has good cause for concern," soliloquised Fuller.
"This old tub wouldn't stand a cat's chance if anything went wrong.
She's one of those craft that's made by the fathom and cut off where
required, I should imagine. Never saw such rough work in all my
life. And no sign of air-locks or any lifesaving devices. I suppose
such details don't worry the German Admiralty. Those leaking joints
remind me of the old Tower Hill subway. A coat of whitewash and gas
jets instead of the electric light would make the illusion
complete."

His reveries were interrupted by a sliding door in the after
bulkhead being ope

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