"I'm going to shut off the juice," announced Billy to his observer. "Keep your ears open, my festive."
With the switching off of the ignition the seaplane commenced a long glide. The almost total silence, save for the swish of the air against the planes and struts, was broken by a succession of loud rumbles. Some of the British raiders were at work.
"In which direction?" shouted Barcroft.
"Ahead on your left, I think," replied Kirkwood.
"Seems to me that the smash came from the right," declared the pilot. "Can you see any flashes?"
"Not a sign," replied the observer. "The sounds seem as if they are coming from the right now abaft the beam, if anything."
"It's a proper mix up," thought Barcroft. "Fog plays the very deuce with sound. If the other fellows are able to drop their bombs it proves that the mist is confined to the upper air. Dash it all! Are we never going to get clear of this muck?"
He jerked his goggles upwards until they rested on his cap. For all practical purposes they were useless, although guaranteed to be immune from the effect of moisture. The front of his coat was glistening with particles of ice. Everything he touched was slippery with rime. Jets of vapour, caused by the cold moisture coming in contact with the warm cylinders, drifted into his face and buffeted his bloodshot eyes.
"It's almost as bad as the night when Fuller and I strafed that Zep.," thought Kirkwood, who, although in a more sheltered position than his companion, came in for a generous share of the atmospheric discomforts.
A sudden jerk, so severe that it was a wonder the huge wing-spread did not collapse under the rapid change of pressure as Barcroft tilted the ailerons, told the observer that something had been sighted. Almost simultaneously the motor was restarted and the seaplane rising and banking steeply almost grazed the topmasts of a number of ships.