Henri would have cried aloud in agony of spirit—but he was as one stricken dumb. He almost spelled death for himself by letting go of the controls of his machine.
But what a sight for his staring eyes!
The falling monoplane had struck athwart the aluminum envelope of the Zeppelin, and, though the bigger craft trembled from stem to stern with the shock, it held its way, buoyed up by the gas chambers on each side of the cylinder. Billy soon rested safely on one of the platforms, cheered by members of a rejoicing crew.
Henri found his voice again, and, shouting like a madman, he sent his monoplane darting toward the earth, and if he failed to land in his usual beautifully precise way he was there when the Zeppelin brought back to him that “dear old Billy.”
The lieutenant, hastily responding to summons, found his two expert aviators hugging one another, and the crew of the Zeppelin critically inspecting a damaged monoplane grounded between its mate and the big ship.
“What’s the matter here?” nervously demanded the lieutenant.
“It looks like foul play is the matter,” shortly responded the chief officer of the Zeppelin. He was not a member of Lieutenant Hume’s command.
“You’re right,” exclaimed the lieutenant with an oath, as he knelt to more closely inspect the chiseled propeller and the spiked rudder. Turning to Billy, and in severe manner:
“Do you always hold your life so lightly as to start an air machine without previous inspection?”
“That machine, sir, was as right as could be when we left it last night. Indeed, sir, it was in elegant shape.”