Less than fifteen miles off—twelve minutes flight—lay the flat outlines of the Belgian coast. Unless Fritz could be brought down rapidly the raider would win through.
Suddenly the monoplane tilted and settled down to a dizzy nose-dive. Whether a vital part had been hit or whether the uncontrollable drop was due to faulty construction neither Barcroft nor his companion knew. For the moment the flight-sub imagined that it was a daring ruse on the part of the Hun pilot, until he realised that the latter was in the observer's seat when the catastrophe occurred.
Down plunged the vanquished monoplane, spirally, erratically. The pilot was clinging desperately to the machine-gun. Even as the 'plane dashed through space the weapon, under the pressure of the Hun's hand, was aimlessly spitting out bullets.
Again the wireless ticked off a message. It was from another seaplane that, although far away in the original cordon, had swung round and joined in the pursuit. Kirkwood's eyes twinkled as he deciphered the dots and dashes: "Congrats: your bird!"
CHAPTER II
A PRICE ON HIS HEAD
FLIGHT SUB-LIEUTENANT BARCROFT scanned the expanse of water beneath him. The "Hippodrome" was now a mere speck far away to the west'ard. Four distinct trails of smoke betokened the fact that British destroyers were pelting to the scene of the seaplane's victory.
On all other points of the compass the surface of the sea was deserted.
"Wind up!" exclaimed Barcroft, using the speaking-tube for the first time since the opening of the duel. "I'm going to have a look at our bag."
The A.P. began to reel in the trailing length of wireless aerial, while the pilot, shutting off the motor, began a spiral volplane towards the surface of the water. His "opposite number"—the seaplane that had tendered her congratulations—was also gliding down towards the spot where the Hun aeroplane had struck the surface. Barcroft recognised her pilot as Lieutenant John Fuller.