As Kirkwood regained his feet the wreckage subsided still more. The propeller blades striking the ground were shattered to fragments, while the motor, released of its "load," began to race with terrific speed.
It was this nerve-racking sound that recalled Barcroft to a sense of action. Switching off the ignition he slid from the chassis and surveyed the scene of desolation.
"Come along, Fuller. Let's give you a hand!" he exclaimed.
Awkwardly the flight-lieutenant descended from his precarious perch. The two stood in silent contemplation for some seconds. Verily they realised that they were very much "in the cart." Stranded in a country overrun by hostile troops, far from the coast—always the preliminary goal of a seaman who is making a bid for freedom—their chance of seeing the inside of a German prison loomed large upon their mental horizon.
"Let's get rid of the old bus while she's warm," suggested Barcroft. "There's no possible chance of getting her repaired sufficiently for even a short flight, and it won't do to let the Huns patch her up."
"Shoulders to the wheel, lads," exclaimed Fuller. "One of mine's a bit groggy, but I feel like shifting a steam-roller with the other."
By their united efforts the wrecked seaplane was toppled over into the canal. The sudden contact of the cold water with the hot cylinders would, they knew, fracture the castings and make the motor useless until complicated and costly repairs had been executed—even if the Germans succeeded in fishing the debris out of the mud at the bottom of the canal.
"Now we'll make tracks," decided Fuller. "Wonder there aren't soldiers on the spot already."
"Yes, we'll make tracks," agreed Barcroft, "but not the ones you are keen on leaving behind."
He pointed to the muddy tow-path and to the comparatively dry ground on the other side of the row of poplars.