Although the machine rose rapidly it lacked the speed that it usually attained. Powerfully engined as she was the battleplane could not ignore the additional weight of five burly Brandenburgers.
"Motors running well, Dick?" asked Blake, shouting to make himself heard above the terrific din.
"Splendidly now," replied the lad.
"Then see what's dragging her," continued the pilot, whose whole attention had to be centred upon the steering of the machine.
Dick made his way to the still open hatchway in the floor of the fuselage. He was hardly prepared for the sight that met his gaze.
Three Germans were astraddle of the horizontal girders supporting the legs of the landing-wheels. Another had thrown arms and legs round an upright and was bellowing lustily. The treacherous Hun who, under the name of Etienne Fauvart, had all but succeeded in capturing the secret battleplane, was clambering up the lattice work, with his revolver hanging from his teeth by means of the lanyard. Dick promptly shut the sliding hatch and made his way to his superior officer.
"We've a fine crew of Huns hanging on," he reported. "Five of them, and that skunk Fauvart in addition. I'd like to get hold of him and find out what's happened to Athol."
"In that case we should have to make a prisoner of him," replied Blake grimly. "No; he'll pay for his treachery now. I don't believe in prolonging the agony. Pass the word to Sergeant O'Rafferty to hold on tightly. And, please, muffle the exhaust. We'll alarm every Bosch within ten miles of us."
Directly the motors were silenced a deafening concussion was heard close to the underside of the chassis. A shrapnell shell, one of many, had just exploded. Some of the bullets perforated the wings or pinged harmlessly against the armoured plating of the fuselage. Two of the Huns, struck by flying fragments of metal, relaxed their grip and fell through space on their long journey to the ground three thousand feet below.
"All ready?" shouted Blake warningly.