Splotches of white smoke sprang up from several shoulders of the hill that overlooked the port. The watchful coast-defense men were not unprepared; but the enemy airship, rapidly growing bigger in the boys’ eyes, winged its way nearer to the land, boldly ignoring the shells sent up to meet it.
“She’s going to drop her bombs right over the town!” gasped Whistler, grabbing Belding, who was nearest.
CHAPTER II—THE HUN IN HIS FURY
Wheeling up from behind them on the higher shoulder of the hill, an airplane spiraled into the upper ether, in an attempt to get above the huge machine that had, two minutes before, appeared out of the sea fog. But this attempt to balk the Hun, like those of the anti-aircraft guns in their emplacements about the port, promised little success.
The fog had made the close approach of the huge Zeppelin possible, and now the rumble of the motors of the enemy machine could be heard clearly by the four Navy Boys on the hillside and their two companions.
“Oh, cracky!” gasped Al Torrance. “She’s coming!”
“And right this way!” gulped Ikey Rosenmeyer. “If she drops a bomb—”
“Good-night!” completed Frenchy in a sepulchral tone.
“Let’s get under cover!” cried George Belding, striving again to get away from the “friendly grip” of the British sailor, Willum Johnson.
“Hold on!” commanded Whistler Morgan. “No use losing our heads over this.”