CHAPTER V
SO NEAR AND YET SO FAR
Not for one moment did Desmond Blake's presence of mind desert him. Quickly locking the wings in position to enable the battleplane to maintain a maximum glide he turned her "down wind." Volplaning in the teeth of the stiff northerly breeze would, he knew, result in a cross-country gain of, perhaps, a mile or two; whereas, gliding with the following wind there was more than a sporting chance of covering sufficient distance to get clear of the thickly populated outskirts of the Metropolis of the Midlands.
Following the stoppage of the motors Dick slipped from his seat and made his way along the floor of the fuselage till he came to the silent machinery. Switching on an electric torch, for it was now dark within the "hull" of the battleplane, and with the failure of the motors the dynamo-run lamps had gone out, Dick made a hasty examination.
"Ignition," he reported. "Magneto, I fancy."
"Guessed so," rejoined the inventor, laconically. "See if you can rectify matters. I'll keep her steady as long as I can."
Volplaning at fifty miles an hour does not give one much time for effecting adjustments. Before the lad had been able to verify his suspicions a peculiar motion warned him that the battleplane was describing a semi-circular swoop. Ten seconds later, with hardly a perceptible jar she came to earth, or rather, landed in a deep snow-drift.
"Had to risk it," declared Blake cheerily. "This will do for the present. Night's coming on apace. Fortunately there are plenty of emergency rations on board."
"Where are we?" asked Athol.
"Goodness only knows," said the inventor. "All I know is that we just skimmed the tops of a tall building. It wouldn't be a bad idea to land and have a look round. Nothing like fixing one's bearings in case we have to clear out in a hurry."
Although the fuselage when at rest had a normal inclination of about forty-five degrees it now barely exceeded fifteen. On alighting the airmen discovered that the battleplane was resting in the snow on a shelving slope. Twenty feet from her bows was a stone wall in a ruinous condition. Only the drag of the snow drift had prevented the battleplane from hurling itself "nose-on" against the formidable obstruction.
Already the twilight was falling, the dim light rendered still fainter by the steady drive of heavy flakes. Away to the right a dim outline, silhouetted against the afterglow, denoted the position of the building against which the battleplane had so narrowly escaped being hurled.
"A ruined castle," exclaimed Athol.
"And, to me, a familiar spot," rejoined the inventor. "We couldn't have lighted upon a better place. This is Kenilworth. There is little fear of interruption, it is late in the day, and people would not be tempted to wade through the snow drifts even if the grounds are not closed. Yes; we'll do here very nicely. There's plenty of room for a 'take off.' Now for a meal, then we'll tackle the repairs. I don't propose making a fresh start until just before daybreak."
Returning to the battleplane the three aviators "battened" down to guard against the possibility of any stray ray of light betraying their presence. Two battery-charged electric lamps gave quite a brilliant illumination. The meal, though frugal, was heartily appreciated, while thanks to the amount of heat still retained by the radiators fed by the exhaust the temperature bordered upon sixty degrees.
"One must be ready to profit by slight misfortunes," remarked Blake during the the meal. "I have an idea. I'll have separate magnetos to each engine."
"Will that help us?" asked Dick. "If one engine fails one of the wings will cease beating and the other will go on flapping. The battleplane would be like a duck wounded in one wing."
"So she would," admitted the inventor dubiously.
"Separate magnetos by all means," continued Dick, "but it would be well to fit a free wheel sprocket on the main shaft of each engine, and arrange it so that each motor actuates both wings. Then if one engine falters or stops the other will continue to propel the battleplane. Of course you would only have half the power, but that would be sufficient to keep her in the air."
Desmond Blake thought deeply for a few minutes.
"By smoke, Dick!" he exclaimed. "You've solved a knotty point. We'll make the necessary alterations directly we return. You are quite right about the power of each motor. Each possesses one and a half times the lifting power necessary for the battleplane."
By nine o'clock in the evening the adjustments to the magneto were satisfactorily carried out, and the battleplane's wings having been folded to escape an accumulation of snow, the airmen turned in for the night.
As Blake had surmised the night passed without interruption. Little did the inhabitants of the picturesque village of Kenilworth suspect that the most ingenious flying machine that the world had yet possessed was resting quietly in the snow-covered courtyard of the famous mediaeval ruin.
So soundly did the two lads sleep in their comfortable bunks that the first intimation they had of the arrival of another day was Desmond Blake's voice exclaiming,
"Now, then, you fellows. Five o'clock and a fine morning."
A cup of hot coffee and some biscuits having been served out, the airmen prepared to resume their flight. It was still twilight. Snowflakes were falling, although not with the violence that characterised yesterday's storm. From a not far distant farmyard cocks were lustily heralding the dawn.
Silently, under the guidance of the masterhand, the huge mechanical bird left its roosting place on the snow covered ground and soared swiftly upwards until it attained a height of two thousand feet.
Suddenly a huge, ill-defined shape lurched past the battleplane, passing less than two hundred feet underneath. In spite of the terrific speed, for the two objects were moving in the opposite direction and at an aggregate rate of one hundred and eighty miles an hour, both lads recognised the shape as that of a Zeppelin.
Desmond Blake saw it, too, and acted promptly. In a few seconds the battleplane had made a semi-circular motion and, "all out," was following the night-raider.
Athol sprang to the machine-gun but the pilot waved his hand to indicate that the weapon was not to be used. Already the Zeppelin, having gained a great distance during the change of direction on the part of the battleplane, was out of sight.
"No use," he exclaimed hurriedly. "Only dummy cartridges. Must blame the Defence of the Realm Act for that."
Seven minutes later the Zeppelin was again sighted. Apparently she had been engaged in a raid over the Midlands and had lost her way. She was moving jerkily, and was down by the stern. Whether that was owing to injury from anti-aircraft guns or merely through the accumulation of snow on the upper part of her envelope the lads could not decide.
Unperceived by the crew of the Zeppelin the battleplane soared majestically overhead until a vertical distance of less than a hundred feet separated the gas-bag from her winged rival.
"If we had ammunition we should have her at our mercy," remarked the inventor.
"Take charge for a few minutes, Athol. I want to give her a little reminder of our meeting."
The lad gripped the steering levers. So strong was his faith in the masterpiece of the inventor that he handled the swiftly-moving battleplane as faultlessly as if his acquaintance with the mechanical bird had been of two years' duration rather than of a few hours.
Meanwhile, Blake descended to the interior of the fuselage, returning presently with a long steel marline-spike. Through the hole in the rounded end he threaded a string of red, white and blue ribbons for the joint purpose of steadying the improvised dart in its flight and in order to leave no doubt in the minds of the Huns of the origin of nationality of the weapon.
Then, clambering into the seat vacated by the deputy pilot, Blake lowered one of the wing-screens and poised the marline-spike over the side.
"Faster," he ordered.
Dick touched the lever actuating the sparking-gear. Perceptibly the battleplane increased her speed until she overlapped the unsuspecting Zeppelin by almost two-thirds of the latter's length.
Blake released his grip of the rough and ready dart. For a couple of seconds it seemed to fall well in front of the swiftly-moving Zeppelin, then, its course describing a gradually increasing curve, it was observed to be making for the huge target.
With a thud it struck the flattened part of the upperside of the envelope about fifty feet from the tail. Completely perforating the aluminium sheeting it vanished, leaving a few fragments of streamers to mark the palpable hit.
"There'll be some gas lost there, I'm thinking," remarked Blake grimly. "Up helm, Athol. We have no more missiles at our disposal. One thing, we've had practice at bomb-dropping."
In a few seconds the errant Zeppelin was lost to sight in the snow-laden atmosphere, as the battleplane was steadied on a course that was to bring her back to her hangar.
"There is our base," announced the pilot, pointing to a clump of snow-laden pines almost hiding a lofty conical hill. "Make sure of your bearings, lads; you never know when the knowledge will come in handy. Now, stand by."
Skilfully Desmond Blake brought the battleplane to a standstill with her nose within five feet of the doors of the shed.
"Now for a proper breakfast," he exclaimed cheerfully as the crew alighted. "It won't take long to house the little beauty, then——"
He stopped abruptly, his hands gripping the half-open doors.
"The deuce!" he ejaculated.