The first of the Huns arrived in a bowline on board the "Golden Hind."

"How many are there?" asked Fosterd.y.k.e.

"Ve vos dwanty," replied the German, holding up the fingers of both hands twice in order to make his meaning clearer.

More Huns emerging from the for'ard gondola of Z64 confirmed the man's statement. One was evidently an officer, but his features did not in the least resemble those of Count von Sinzig, whose photograph had appeared some time back in the ill.u.s.trated papers.

Seventeen Huns were transhipped in about as many minutes. The eighteenth was half-way along the tautened hawser when Fosterd.y.k.e shouted, "Let go!"

Leading-Hand Jackson obeyed the order instantly. The ring of the Senhouse slip was knocked clear, and the hawser fell with a splash into the sea. The "Golden Hind," released from the drag of the partly water-logged Zeppelin, shot ahead.

She was only just in time. The baronet had noticed a tongue of flame issuing from the centre gondola of Z64. How the fire was caused was a mystery, since had the Huns wished to destroy the wreckage they would have waited until the last man was clear of the Zeppelin. Possibly the wiring of the electric stove had short-circuited when in contact with the salt water.

In less than fifteen seconds from the time the hawser had been slipped the hydrogen escaping from the leaky ballonets was ignited. The aluminium gasbag was surrounded by flames. The heat caused the gas in the still intact ballonets to expand, affording sufficient lifting power to heave the wreckage almost clear of the water. The remaining Huns, keenly alive to the terrible danger, promptly jumped into the sea.

Then with a terrific glare the remaining ballonets burst, and the shattered wreckage, sizzling as it came into contact with the cold water, disappeared beneath the surface, leaving a steadily widening circle of oil surmounted by a dense pall of black smoke to mark the scene of the end of Z64.

Before the evil-smelling vapour had dispersed the "Golden Hind," turning head to wind, was over the spot searching for possible survivors. For half an hour she cruised round, but her efforts to rescue the three Huns were unavailing. The men had either been stunned by the explosion or had been hit by falling wreckage. Amongst them was Unter-Leutnant Hans Leutter, who, by resolutely refusing to leave his command until the rest of the crew were safe, had proved that all Hun officers were not of the von Sinzig type.

Several of the rescued Germans could speak English--but they were decidedly reticent. In the back of their minds they rather feared that they were in for a bad time. They knew that their late kapitan had been practically outlawed and that he was "wanted" by the authorities for having, amongst other misdemeanours, destroyed the Fremantle aerodrome by means of an incendiary bomb. They rather expected that they would be blamed for the acts of their fugitive superior.

On the other hand, they were grateful to their rescuers for having saved their lives, and with typical Teutonic reasoning they eventually decided that one way to repay the kindness and to ingratiate themselves in the eyes of the Englishman would be to give away their former officers.

The spokesman led off by informing Sir Reginald Fosterd.y.k.e that Unter-Leutnant Hans Leutter was the person who dropped the incendiary bomb from the observation basket in the hope that it would destroy the "Golden Hind."

"He was, of course, acting under Count von Sinzig's orders," remarked Fosterd.y.k.e, drily. "Where is Herr Leutter?"

"Dead," was the reply. "He was one of the three left on Z64."

"And Count von Sinzig was one of the other two?"

The German airman shrugged his shoulders and made a gesture of disgust.

He still rankled over his kapitan's cowardly desertion. It was long obvious to all the survivors of Z64 that von Sinzig had no intention of summoning aid. Eight hours had elapsed since he began his flight in the Albatross. In that time he must have sighted several vessels, since the scene of the disaster was not many miles from one of the great Atlantic trade routes.

"Kapitan Count von Sinzig left Z64 soon after daybreak this morning, mein Herr," replied the German. "At seven o'clock, to be exact."

"Left--how?" demanded Fosterd.y.k.e, sharply.

"In an Albatross monoplane. He was last seen going east-north-east."

Fosterd.y.k.e dismissed his informant and turned to Kenyon and Bramsdean.

"The cunning old rascal!" he exclaimed. "I see his little game now.

He's completing the final stage by aeroplane. I suppose by this time he's won the Chauva.s.se Prize; but I don't envy him."

"Will you enter a protest, sir?" asked Peter.

"Protest? Not much," replied the baronet, emphatically. "These seventeen Huns can do the protesting if they want to, and I rather fancy they will."

"There's many a slip," quoted Kenyon. "He may not complete the course after all."

CHAPTER XXIII--A DUMPING OPERATION

The heavily-laden "Golden Hind" resumed her delayed journey. Both gas-bags and planes had to do their full share of work to keep the airship afloat. She was flying low, but making good progress; but so little was her reserve of buoyancy that had the three Huns who perished in the catastrophe to Z64 been saved, it was doubtful whether Fosterd.y.k.e could have "carried on."

To make matters worse, some of the patches on the repaired ballonets were leaking, for owing to the heat of the rubber the solution was not holding well.

"I wonder if Drake's 'Golden Hind,' when she arrived in the Thames after circ.u.mnavigating the globe, was patched up like we are," remarked Kenyon. "It took Drake three long years to do the trick, and we look like completing our voyage in under seventeen days."

"If the old 'bus holds out," added Bramsdean. "'Tany rate, no one can say we haven't done our bit. The 'Golden Hind's' been a regular sort of aerial lifeboat. That is some satisfaction. I'd rather we did that than win the race."

"I suppose our pa.s.sengers won't get up to any of their Hunnish tricks?"

observed Kenneth.

"Trust Fosterd.y.k.e for that," replied Peter grimly. "He's had 'em placed in the dining-saloon. (Fortunately, we won't require many more meals.) They can amuse themselves there without getting into mischief. There's one of our fellows stationed outside to keep the blighters in order."

Just then the baronet came upon the scene.

"Von Sinzig looks like pulling it off," he observed. "A wireless from the S.S. _Wontwash_ reports that a monoplane pa.s.sed over the ship at 6 P.M., flying east. According to the position given, the _Wontwash_ was only thirty-five miles west of Gibraltar."

"Then perhaps he's back at his hangar by this time," commented Peter.

"Any news of the others?"

"Yes; Commodore Theodore Nye has been unable to get hold of another 'bus yet, although two of the Australian R.A.F. pilots are bringing him a 'Bristol' machine from Melbourne. He's out of the running. That he admits, but he means to complete the course, even if it takes him six months."

"And the j.a.p?" asked Kenyon.

"Not a word," replied the baronet. "He's keeping quiet; but mark my words, that quadruplane will turn up unexpectedly. If his 'bus had had British motors, he would have romped home in less than a week."

"What engines has he?" asked Bramsdean.

"j.a.panese," replied Fosterd.y.k.e. "Pa.s.sable imitations of ours and good up to a certain point; but give me British engines all the jolly old time."

Although the baronet made frequent enquiries of the operator, no wireless messages concerning von Sinzig came through.

"Perhaps he's crashed," suggested Peter.

"Not he," replied Kenyon. "That Hun's got the luck of a cat with nine lives. He's playing his own game."

"It is a game," added Bramsdean. "Loading that crowd of Huns on to us is like a man in a mile race chucking his gear to another compet.i.tor and telling him to hang on. I don't wish the blighter any harm, but I do hope that if he pulls off the money prize they'll pay him in German marks at the pre-war rate of exchange. That'd make him look blue!"

Although no news came in concerning their Hun rival, the officers and crew of the "Golden Hind" began to be bombarded with wireless messages from Britons in every quarter of the globe. All were of the most encouraging nature, for the story of Fosterd.y.k.e's airship and her adventures and misadventures--all more or less distorted owing to the lack of authentic detail--had awakened world-wide interest.

There were cheery messages from patriotic Britons; incentive ones from sportsmen, to whom the suggestion of a race appealed more than did the fact that the contest was one of endurance calculated to uphold the prestige of British flying men. Frenchmen, Dutchmen, Norwegians, Americans, and j.a.panese all sent greetings to the intrepid British airmen.