"This is more important, I guess. See, those fellows are already setting things to rights. Before any of the Belgian vedettes can come up they will be off again."
Kenneth was right in his surmise. There were no troops within a mile of the place. The two men who formed the crew of the monoplane were feverishly tackling the work of making good the damage. One of the wires actuating the elevating gear had been cut through by a chance Belgian bullet—one amongst a thousand more that had been fired at the troublesome Taube.
"Surrender!" shouted Kenneth, advancing to within fifty feet of the aviators and levelling his revolver. Rollo, cooler than his companion, steadied the barrel of his heavy pistol in the crook of his arm.
The pilot had been so engrossed in his work that he had not noticed the arrival of the lads. At the sound of Kenneth's voice he had just completed the joining up of the severed wire. He made a rush to the propeller and began to swing it in order to start the engine.
This was more than Kenneth had bargained for. It seemed too much like shooting down a man in cold blood. He need not have been so chivalrous, for the next instant a bullet tore through his hair and sent his cap a couple of yards away. The observer of the Taube had, at the first alarm, flung himself upon the ground and had fired at the lad with a rifle.
Before the man could thrust home a fresh cartridge Kenneth was snug behind a rise in the ground. Rollo, twenty paces to the right, had likewise taken cover.
The powerful motor was now working. The propeller blades glittered like a circle of light as they revolved with a terrific buzz. The draught of the propeller threw up a cloud of dust as high as a three-storied house. Through the haze thus caused the lads could distinguish the forms of the aviators as they scrambled into their seats.
Both dispatch-riders emptied the contents of their revolvers, perhaps a little wildly, but the result was none the less disastrous to the Taube. There was a blinding flash, a report, and a rush of air that drove the dust-cloud in all directions. One of the bullets had pierced the petrol-tank, and a spark had done the rest.
In an instant the Taube was enveloped in flame. The pilot, his hands held to his face, was stumbling blindly away from the inferno, his clothes burning furiously. The observer ran for nearly twenty yards, spun round thrice, and collapsed.
Rollo was the one in this instance to take the initiative. He ran to the pilot, tripped him up, and began to heap handfuls of dust upon his burning clothing. By Kenneth's aid the flames were extinguished, but by this time the unfortunate German was unconscious.