"Now," exclaimed Athol.
With a perceptible jerk the direction of downward flight was checked. Then, giving a decided bump as the buckled landing-wheel touched the ground, the monoplane "taxied" for full fifty yards, and halted within ten feet of a group of officers, who scattered right and left as the machine bounded awkwardly towards them.
Athol, kneeling on the deck of the fuselage, touched his companion in order to guide him to the ground. The pilot, still holding the steering-wheel, made no effort to move.
"Do you want me to give you a hand?" he asked, touching him again, Still no response.
"What's wrong with your pilot?" enquired one of the officers anxiously.
Athol crawled forward and looked into his companion's face. The lieutenant's blood-rimmed eyes were wide open and staring fixedly in front of him, but they were the eyes of a corpse. The gallant pilot's mind had triumphed over his physical injuries up to the very moment that he had brought the monoplane safely to earth. He had gained at least one desire: he had brought his machine back to the British lines.
* * * * *
"Never expected to see you so soon, old man," was Dick's candid greeting to his chum.
"Nor did I," admitted Athol. "For that matter I wasn't at all sure that you got away all right. I heard the bombs drop, so I knew that the battleplane had set to work. In fact the last bomb you dropped nearly settled my hash. Instead it did me a good turn."
"And I went for Sergeant O'Rafferty for being such a clumsy blighter," said Blake. "By Jove, Athol, you seem to have had a run of luck. Sorry I can't say the same for the poor fellow who brought you back."