But, as de Garros said, the metal helmet would not be much protection against the projectile of a quick firer, or even a rifle.
The fighting aircraft was fitted with a self-starter, obviating the necessity of swinging the great propeller.
“All ready?” asked the Frenchman of Jack, who sat behind him, tandem wise, in the long, narrow body of the machine.
“Ready,” said Jack, in the steadiest voice just then at his command.
“Then up ve go.”
The self-starter purred, and then came the roar and a crackle of the exhausts as the propeller swung swiftly till it was a blur. Blue smoke from the castor-oil lubricant spouted, mingled with flame, into the thickening air of the evening. The wholesome smell of the wood was drowned in the reek of gasoline and oil fumes.
“Gracious, if there are any Germans within a mile, they’ll hear this racket,” thought Jack, with a gulp. “It sounds like a battery of gatling guns.”
De Garros took his foot from the brake lever and the machine darted forward. Jack clutched the sides desperately till his knuckles showed white through the skin. Then he gave a shout of alarm.
The machine had suddenly reared up like a startled horse. The jolting and bumping of the “take-off” stopped. The boy realized with a thrill that they were flying.
At that instant from the trees on one side of the clearing burst several Uhlans.