"A fine end to the test it would have been," he muttered, "if I'd been dumped in the sea by a squall at the outset."
A few minutes later he was maneuvering above the big Dreadnought. The vessel looked queer and dwarfed from the height at which he hovered. But Ned could not help thinking what a fine object she would offer for an aerial marksman. As the lad knew, there is a limit to the perpendicular aiming of a gun, and skimming directly above the vessel, as he was, it was doubtful if the most skilful gunner on board could have hit his aeroplane.
At the stern of the big ship, the young aviator now noticed a platform—evidently the one on which he was expected to land. His heart gave a thump, as he gazed down on it.
"It doesn't look much bigger than a checkerboard," he thought, "and if I don't hit it—wow! as Herc would say."
As carefully and coolly as if he were on a practice flight, Ned regulated his levers. Then, with a quick intake of his breath, he darted downward.
Down—down, he shot, the blood singing in his ears with the rapidity of his descent. It was thrilling, desperate—dangerous!
Suddenly, as Ned placed his foot on a pedal and applied a warping appliance, there was a sharp "crack!"
The aeroplane hesitated for an instant.
Then, without the slightest warning, it lurched in sickening fashion, almost unseating him.