"I can, sir," replied Derek.
"You've had experience?"
"Cross-Channel flights, sir; also some months' service on the Western Front."
"Good enough!" exclaimed the Staff Officer. "Carry on! The engineers say there's nothing wrong with the motors."
"Very good, sir," replied Derek, saluting.
Entering the pilot's cabin Daventry found the two injured men. One was still insensible; the other, white-faced, was trying to make the best of his injuries. To him Derek put a few questions; then he telephoned to the engine-room, and received the reply that all was in readiness to resume the interrupted flight.
Very gently the two injured officers were lowered into the still waiting motor-boat.
"Carry on, coxswain!" ordered Derek. "Steer nor'-a-quarter-east and you'll pick up land within ten miles of Sableridge, even if you don't fall in with No. 21 before. Report to the C.O. that I am detained on duty, and that I will wire him directly I get ashore."
The motor-boat pushed off, swung round, and set off at full speed for the invisible shore; while Derek, after testing the contacts—a process that took what seemed ages of suspense to the impatient Brigadier-General—gave the word for the four motors to be started.
Taxi-ing over the smooth sea nearly two hundred yards until sufficient speed was attained, the huge sea-plane "took-off" almost imperceptibly. Then, climbing to two thousand feet, the triplane settled down to her long flight to the distant shores of Spain.