Leaning over Billy’s shoulder, Macauley vociferated in the young pilot’s ear:
“We have a shot in the locker, but none in the gun.”
The “shot in the locker,” to which “Daring Dan” referred, was food, which from time to time had been stored in the war-planes, in anticipation of escape and some unforeseen delay in getting back to the British lines. The prisoners had had no chance to obtain any cartridges for the wicked little swiveled shooting irons carried in the armored aircraft. The Turkish officer was responsible for the removal of the original supply.
Billy well knew of the lack mentioned by Macauley, and he had already decided to dodge the well-armed airline patrol by turning back from the sea and making a dash for the open on the Asiatic side.
“Blame me,” cried Macauley! “it looks like they’ve got a line on us!”
Two of the Turkish craft were coming like the wind toward the British war-planes, the latter still working directly upward.
That was enough to settle the minds of the pilots on a land course straightway. Every ounce of driving power went into the war-plane motors, and there was nothing aloft in the Turkish empire that had a ghost of a show in a race with these fleeing space-killers.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
IN THE GROVES OF DAMASCUS.
“They might as well be tied to a post for all the gain they are making,” gleefully proclaimed Macauley, looking backward at the pursuing aircraft, which even then were rapidly fading in the rear distance.
“And I thought I had patched up the junk they are driving in pretty good shape,” laughingly remarked Billy, turning his head to see the last of the winged fleet of the Turks.