“You’ve been testing our supply of gas, have you?” shouted the pilot. “Getting low, I suppose.”
“It’s been leaking in a trickling stream right along,” came from the other in tones of deepest disgust. “I’ve found a tiny hole that must have been made by a splinter from shrapnel or a bullet from that German pilot’s gun. If only I’d thought to look before, we might have fixed it and saved a couple of gallons.”
This was serious news indeed. With possibly fifty or seventy miles of hostile territory to cover, and daybreak close at hand, they were in a bad fix.
“How much have we still got?” asked Tom.
“Don’t know, exactly, but hardly a gallon at the best; and still oozing out of that hole not as large as a shingle nail would make.”
Quickly Tom reviewed the desperate situation in his mind. He knew they had no chance whatever of making the French lines unless in some way they managed to renew their supply of gasolene or petrol. That, of course, could only be done by landing, and commandeering a supply at some house where, by accident, the owner had a spare gallon or two.
Meanwhile they could possibly plug up the hole in the tank, and if through good luck they were enabled to rise again, finally get back of the French lines.
“Can you reach that hole in the tank, and keep your finger on it, Jack, so as to conserve our last gallon of fuel?” he called out.
“I guess I can. What are you going to do about it? One gallon won’t take us all the way home.”
“I wish it would, but I know better,” was the reply. “Listen, Jack! We must keep moving along until dawn comes. Then, if the coast seems clear, we’ve got to drop down and make a landing.”