"No explosives left, I hope?" asked Billy. "None except the petrol,"

replied Fuller. "That's explosive enough, I reckon, for this job.

No, I dropped all my plums over Aerschot. Gregory's gone (s'pose you can see that for yourself?); shot through the head; he gave a sort of leap--he wasn't strapped in, you'll understand--and flopped right over the fuselage."

"You've been strafed!" exclaimed Barcroft, for Fuller's quick sentences, coupled with the fact that he winced frequently, pointed to that.

"The child is correct," agreed the flight-lieutenant. "Machine-gun bullet clean through the left arm. It stings a bit, but nothing much. No, don't trouble about it now. It'll keep. Now for a blaze."

Striking a match he set light to the oiled paper and tossed the flaming missile into the fuselage of the doomed seaplane. With a rush of air and a lurid flare the petrol vapour caught. In an instant the machine was enveloped in fire.

"Good enough," declared Fuller, with an air of satisfaction. "Hard lines on the old bus, though. She was a beauty. I was just getting used to her, too."

"Come along, old man," urged Barcroft again.

Giving a farewell glance at the burning wreckage, Fuller turned reluctantly away and accompanied his chum to the waiting seaplane.

"We're going to pitch you out of your perch, my festive," announced the flight-sub addressing the observer. "Fuller's tried to stop a bullet. He didn't succeed, and as a result the nickel's left a hole through his arm. Now, all aboard. We're lucky not to have a swarm of Huns about our ears."

Having a.s.sisted the wounded flight-lieutenant on to the float and thence into Kirkwood's seat in the fuselage Barcroft swarmed up and took his place at the joy-stick.

Standing on the float and steadying himself by holding on to a strut, the A.P. gave a vigorous push with his foot against the ca.n.a.l bank. As the seaplane drifted towards the centre of the artificial waterway he clambered nimbly to the deck of the fuselage and, lying at full length, steadied himself by grasping the coaming surrounding his surrendered place.

"All right?" asked Barcroft.

The motor fired smoothly. With the engine throttled down the pilot taxied cautiously for a short distance, then increasing speed and tilting the ailerons he started to climb.

At barely twenty feet from the ground a sudden and furious gust of wind caught the seaplane fairly abeam. Quickly Billy actuated the rudder-bar in order to turn the machine sufficiently to counteract the side-drop.

It was too late. Swept bodily sideways the seaplane failed to clear the line of poplars. The left-hand planes struck a tree-trunk and crumpled like brown paper. The next instant the whole fabric crashed to the ground across the tow-path.

CHAPTER XXVII

FUGITIVES

BOBBY KIRKWOOD was the first of the trio to recover his scattered senses. The impact had hurled him violently forward, and cannoning off Barcroft's back he had slid more or less gently to the ground.

The shock had forced Billy against the for'ard side of the coaming, well-nigh winding him, while at the same time his head came into contact with the framework, thus causing him to see a most gorgeous galaxy of stars.

Well it was that the observer's body glanced off that of the pilot; otherwise the A.P. would have been instantly killed by the swiftly-revolving propeller. As it was he escaped by a hairbreadth.

Fuller was not so fortunate. The sudden change of momentum had the result of crushing his already wounded arm, besides giving him a nasty blow on the forehead. He, too, began to wonder dimly whether he was witnessing a superb display of Brock's fireworks.

As Kirkwood regained his feet the wreckage subsided still more. The propeller blades striking the ground were shattered to fragments, while the motor, released of its "load," began to race with terrific speed.

It was this nerve-racking sound that recalled Barcroft to a sense of action. Switching off the ignition he slid from the cha.s.sis and surveyed the scene of desolation.

"Come along, Fuller. Let's give you a hand!" he exclaimed.

Awkwardly the flight-lieutenant descended from his precarious perch.

The two stood in silent contemplation for some seconds. Verily they realised that they were very much "in the cart." Stranded in a country overrun by hostile troops, far from the coast--always the preliminary goal of a seaman who is making a bid for freedom--their chance of seeing the inside of a German prison loomed large upon their mental horizon.

"Let's get rid of the old bus while she's warm," suggested Barcroft.

"There's no possible chance of getting her repaired sufficiently for even a short flight, and it won't do to let the Huns patch her up."

"Shoulders to the wheel, lads," exclaimed Fuller. "One of mine's a bit groggy, but I feel like shifting a steam-roller with the other."

By their united efforts the wrecked seaplane was toppled over into the ca.n.a.l. The sudden contact of the cold water with the hot cylinders would, they knew, fracture the castings and make the motor useless until complicated and costly repairs had been executed--even if the Germans succeeded in fishing the debris out of the mud at the bottom of the ca.n.a.l.

"Now we'll make tracks," decided Fuller. "Wonder there aren't soldiers on the spot already."

"Yes, we'll make tracks," agreed Barcroft, "but not the ones you are keen on leaving behind."

He pointed to the muddy tow-path and to the comparatively dry ground on the other side of the row of poplars.

"We'll walk backwards as far as the field," he continued. "The Boches are bound to examine the footprints. If they see that they lead in the direction of the ca.n.a.l it may baffle 'em a bit. We must look sharp. I see the water falling an inch or so."

"But the ca.n.a.l isn't tidal," remarked Kirkwood.

"I agree," a.s.sented Billy. "The slight fall tells me that the nearest lock has been opened. That means a barge is on its way, and, much as I regret missing the sight of a Hun cargo boat b.u.mping on the wreckage of the old bus, prudence demands that we sheer off."

Having walked backwards until they reached hard ground the trio set off cautiously. The country consisted of tilled fields--the work of impressed Belgians, forced by their taskmasters to cultivate the ground to provide foodstuffs for the Huns. The absence of hedges gave the land an unfamiliar appearance as far as the three British officers were concerned. What was of more pressing significance there was a lack of efficient cover, the only means of securing shelter being by keeping close to the trees that bounded the fields.

"There's a spinny of sorts in there," said Kirkwood, pointing to a circular cl.u.s.ter of bushes. "I vote we make for that and repair damages."

"And find ourselves surrounded by dozens of Boches," added Fuller.

"Naturally, once they found the wreckage of our machine they would search the nearest cover. We must make for those woods What say you, old bird?"

"Yes, and remain till nightfall," added Barcroft.

The wood was nearly a mile away, and presented an expanse of leafless trees extending nearly twice that distance. The depth of the wood the fugitives had no means of discovering.

For the last four hundred yards the three officers crawled and crouched, for the ground was as flat and unbroken as a table-top.

Away on the right could be discerned a red-tiled farmhouse, close to it a roofless barn, with the two charred gables standing up clearly against the sky. Further away was a village of considerable size, but in all directions there were no signs of human beings or of cattle.

"Thank goodness we are here at last," exclaimed Fuller, throwing himself upon the ground. "I don't want you fellows to think that I'm piling it on, but my rotten ankle's played old Harry with me.

Fractured it on a ringbolt on the 'Cursus' at Harwich," he explained. "Had six weeks in hospital, and thought it got fixed up all right, but it isn't."

"And your wound?" asked the A.P.

"Pooh! Nothing," replied Fuller unconcernedly. "That's a simple matter. If this ankle crocks properly, I'll make you fellows carry on without me. I can hang out a couple of days until you're clear and then give myself up."

"I'm jolly well sure you don't," said Barcroft firmly. "We three sink or swim together. Think you'll be able to swarm up that tree if we give you a hand?"

The flight-lieutenant eyed the gnarled trunk somewhat dubiously.

"Might," he replied. "I'll try, anyway. What's the idea?"