Then, clambering into the seat vacated by the deputy pilot, Blake lowered one of the wing-screens and poised the marline-spike over the side.
"Faster," he ordered.
Dick touched the lever actuating the sparking-gear. Perceptibly the battleplane increased her speed until she overlapped the unsuspecting Zeppelin by almost two-thirds of the latter's length.
Blake released his grip of the rough and ready dart. For a couple of seconds it seemed to fall well in front of the swiftly-moving Zeppelin, then, its course describing a gradually increasing curve, it was observed to be making for the huge target.
With a thud it struck the flattened part of the upperside of the envelope about fifty feet from the tail. Completely perforating the aluminium sheeting it vanished, leaving a few fragments of streamers to mark the palpable hit.
"There'll be some gas lost there, I'm thinking," remarked Blake grimly. "Up helm, Athol. We have no more missiles at our disposal. One thing, we've had practice at bomb-dropping."
In a few seconds the errant Zeppelin was lost to sight in the snow-laden atmosphere, as the battleplane was steadied on a course that was to bring her back to her hangar.
"There is our base," announced the pilot, pointing to a clump of snow-laden pines almost hiding a lofty conical hill. "Make sure of your bearings, lads; you never know when the knowledge will come in handy. Now, stand by."
Skilfully Desmond Blake brought the battleplane to a standstill with her nose within five feet of the doors of the shed.
"Now for a proper breakfast," he exclaimed cheerfully as the crew alighted. "It won't take long to house the little beauty, then——"