“Hands down, Mac.,” was Canby’s cool and quiet address to his comrade; “we are up against it, and no use of making a bark.”
The captive airmen were marched off to Marmora town between a double file of soldiers, while other islanders brought up the rear, dragging the war-planes.
One of the Turkish officers spoke French, indicated by the few questions he asked in that language, principally as to what had caused the downfall of the aeroplane. The uniforms worn by Macauley and Canby presented all the evidence required showing that they belonged to the peninsula invaders.
That it was proposed to take the prisoners away from the island forthwith was impressed by the incoming, upon signal, of a small steamboat, and the immediate ushering aboard of the airmen, who soon learned that the destination was Islam’s capital city.
“Going right to headquarters,” remarked “Daring Dan,” as the four leaned over the steamer rail watching the swirl of the tide, “and no cards with us to send on to the sultan.”
“I hope the beds are well aired at the jail,” drawled Canby, catching the humor of his comrade.
Billy and Henri were wondering just what the Turks were really going to do with them.
It was not until the following morning that the young aviators saw the marble minarets of Constantinople sparkling in the sunlight, and little reckoned then that they were soon to pass the “high door” or “Sublime porte,” the principal entrance of the sultan’s palace, which rose in grandeur on the extreme point of the promontory where the ancient city stands. Just then the boys were more inclined to the belief that locks and bars were to form the only vision coming to them for many a day.
“Here’s where the ‘blood brotherhood’ won’t count,” sighed Henri, reminded of their Cossack relation by happening to touch the amulet in his blouse pocket.
“Might trade these flints for crescents,” suggested Billy, “only I’m afraid we couldn’t bluff the Turks with that sort of game.”