The German fleet was speeding northward—the hovering seaplane giving signal that the British patrolling squadron was hastening to cut off the invading vessels. Now favored by the gathering mist in the northerly flight, the daring raiders made their escape, but it could be seen that one of the lighter cruisers was afire. The land batteries had evidently scored a target or two.
A guttural command from the man in the sea-plane’s bow, and the machine was set in the wake of the fleet, and with full power in the motors.
“How much of the oil feed have we?”
The gunner’s question was passed back from mouth to mouth to the engine man, for in the noises of the high speed nothing else could be heard beyond a foot or two.
“Hundred miles or so,” was the answer of the engine man, passed forward.
“And nearly four hundred miles to Kiel,” muttered the gunner. “But the fleet will put us right,” he satisfied himself.
So they were bound for Kiel, and the boys did not know it until the seaplane settled among the German cruisers churning the waves in their race for home. With tanks refilled, the aircraft led the flight to Helgoland Bay.
While far in advance of the warships, the sea-plane drew the fire of an English submarine that suddenly rose from the depths of the sea. A figure jumped from the turret of the underwater craft, turned a lever, and the gun that was folded into the back of the submarine swung muzzle upward. Once, twice, thrice, the gun cracked, but every shot a miss.
The third shot, however, was a near one, for Billy and Henri, interested spectators from the steel gallery, heard the ball hiss in the passing.
The lookout man of the seaplane trailed a signal to the fleet, but the submarine had disappeared before the cruisers had warily crossed the danger spot indicated by the seaplane.