The Turkish troopers had ceased fire at the biplanes—a mere waste of powder now—but when they saw one of the machines dip and dive, a dozen or more of them, howling in triumph over the belief that their bullets really had winged one of the big flyers, charged full tilt across the plain.
Billy, however, had the bulge on the quick-comers, in that he was skimming the sandy soil before the Turks were fairly started, and Captain Johnson swung a leg in the aeroplane without compelling a stop.
The soldiers popped away with their rifles, but made no holes in the deceptive target. On the rise, Captain Johnson gave them a couple of rounds from his revolvers, and shouted, as a farewell salute:
“Dern your pictures, haven’t you got enough yet? We’ll come back some day and carry off the whole fort!”
“Of course,” concluded the captain, settling into his seat in the space-killing biplane, “they couldn’t understand a word, but there is nothing like relieving your mind of extra pressure.”
He also relieved the tobacco plug of about a third of its weight.
CHAPTER XXIII.
RIDING A HURRICANE.
“We did the trick in fine style,” proclaimed Jimmy Stetson, at next sight of the young aviators, “but twice we missed a mine by eyelash length, and I warrant if we hadn’t, your record of lofty travel would be knocked in the head.”
“We had some little experience ourselves,” modestly advanced Billy.
The three boys, perched on a cracker box, compared notes until Jimmy was called away by a submarine lieutenant.