The two Air Service boys followed the enemy down with a risky nose-dive, determined to make sure that he did not get away; and so were able to see him strike amidst the upper branches of the trees with a horrible crash. They themselves had a close call, and only for Tom's clever handling of his machine might have shared the fate of their victim.
Marking the spot as best they could in the darkness of the night, the boys again started upward, in the hope that there might still be other work for them to do.
"Too late!" called out Jack. "The Boche has had a stomachful and is beating it for home like all get-out. He's lost two planes and pilots, which is a heap more'n he counted on giving up for the fun of bombing our hangars. Shall we call it off and go in, Tom?"
Indeed, there was nothing else for them to do. The enemy had been forced to run before he could have dropped more than half of his stock of destructive bombs.
Back to the hut went the three boys. Harry was limping, a fact Tom noticed for the first time.
"Look here, did you run up against a Boche bullet while you were chasing around up there, Harry?" he asked solicitously.
"Not quite so bad as that, I'm glad to tell you," came the reply, as Harry stooped to rub the calf of his left leg gently. "But something struck me a nasty blow. Don't know exactly what it was, but I warrant I'll have a nice black-and-blue mark to show for it. Felt mighty queer, too, just as if you'd gone and slapped me with a lathe, flat-side out."
"I reckon," spoke up Jack, "it was a bullet striking the part of your machine that you've got sheathed in steel. You must have been resting your leg against it just where the Boche bullet struck."
"Now, strange to say, I hadn't thought of that explanation before, Jack. But I wouldn't be surprised if you'd guessed the answer. But it stung like everything for a while, and feels sore still."
"But for all that you've cause for being satisfied, Harry," Tom told him.