“There’s no use of crying over spilt milk,” his companion called out. “The question to settle is what we ought to do now about steering.”
“I’ll do the best I can with the lumbering old plane,” said the pilot bravely, not one to be utterly discouraged by conditions that promised trouble.
For some little time the air service boys continued on through the clouds which surrounded them like a milky envelope, and which prevented their seeing even the moon above. Then there came a change, and once more they found themselves in the open.
An hour had passed since they lost track of their companions. Tom steered by reckoning alone. He kept the moon on his right whenever he could see it through the masses of clouds drifting near.
Then came a sudden shock as he discovered moving objects ahead that quickly took on the shape of cruising planes. There were three of them, all fashioned alike; and even as seen in the deceptive light of the declining moon Tom knew they could not be French machines.
In the first place, they were coming toward him, though possibly the pilots had not yet discovered the presence of the heavy bombing machine near by. Then again, these planes were of a lighter build, and capable of much greater speed than the big two-seated Caudron.
Of course they were German Fokkers, sent up to intercept the returning expedition.
“Looks as if we were in for it,” thought Tom. “Three of ’em, too!”
To fight those three experienced airmen at that dizzy height was hopeless, although if it became the last resort Tom and Jack would undoubtedly resort to the rapid-fire gun and try to stand them off.
It was a time for quick thinking and instant action; and no sooner had Tom made his alarming discovery than he changed his course and headed directly for a bank of clouds that chanced to be close by.