"No, sir," replied the lad, still deftly juggling with the magnetos, where apparently the fault lay.
With his customary skill Desmond Blake brought the battleplane to earth in the clearing pointed out by the Belgian lieutenant. His first act after landing was to fix a detonator and time fuse in position. Rather than allow the machine to fall into the hands of the enemy Blake had resolved to blow her to fragments.
"Be ready to slip it when I give you warning," he cautioned. "Stick it, Dick, but don't stop a moment after I give the word."
Some minutes passed but there was no sign of outside interruption. Athol, Sergeant O'Rafferty and the Belgian alighted, leaving Blake in the pilot's seat and Dick toiling at the motors, since the lad preferred to work alone in the confined space between the engines. The Belgian, having seemingly recovered his self-composure, began to stroll towards the edge of the clearing, carrying a large can.
"Where are you off to, Monsieur Fauvart?" asked Athol.
The lieutenant half turned his head and put his finger to his lips. Then signing to the lad to follow, he hastened his footsteps, although treading as softly as before.
O'Rafferty was about to accompany Athol when Blake called him back to bear a hand at slewing the battleplane round head to wind.
"They've gone to get some water for the radiator," said the pilot reassuringly. "Fauvart knows of a spring close handy. Getting on all right, Dick?"
"I'm doing my best," answered the lad guardedly.
The sergeant, lighting a cigarette, paced to and fro, with eyes and ears alert to catch the first sight or sound of anything of a suspicious nature.