"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 Bülow 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.'"