"Any stunts lately?" asked Farrar.
Barcroft shook his head.
"Not counting the destroyer we've just done in, we haven't had a decent strafe for nearly a week. I can't imagine where Fritz hangs his hat and coat up about here. There are dozens of U-boats in the Mediterranean. It is certain that they put into the Adriatic for repairs and replenishing stores, but where, goodness only knows. We've tried Trieste, Pola, and Fiume, and drawn blank. I'd like to meet some one who could give me the tip."
"You have," remarked the sub quietly.
"Who—where?" demanded the flight-lieutenant.
"This child," replied Farrar, nudging his own ribs. "I'd recognise the place at once. It's somewhere behind the islands off the Dalmatian coast."
"By the Lord Harry!" ejaculated Billy Barcroft explosively. "We'll land Sylvester and Little Willie, fill up with bombs and petrol, and you'll pilot me to the U-boat base. Farrar, my bird, we'll have a glorious stunt and the most gorgeous strafe on record. Game?"
"Rather," replied the sub enthusiastically.