"Sorry, chum!" shouted a voice, as a pair of hands grasped him under the shoulders. "We thought you were a bloomin' Boche. You'll be all right in 'arf a mo'."
Derek could not reply. He was temporarily speechless, but he was heartily glad of the assistance of the men who had swum out to his aid. Then he was dimly conscious of his feet coming in contact with the muddy bottom and willing hands helping him up the steeply-rising bank.
His senses returning, Daventry was able to take a fairly-comprehensive view of the situation. He was standing on the edge of a large reservoir. In the centre, looming up in the reflected glare of the still fiercely-burning Gotha, was the tail of his trusty Dromedary, resembling an obelisk to commemorate the aerial encounter. A short distance away was a searchlight, its beams slowly sweeping the sky, while, standing out against the rays, was the gaunt muzzle of a heaven-directed anti-aircraft gun, ready for instant action. Round the weapon were the gunners, seemingly oblivious to the British pilot's presence, their whole attention centred upon the patch of luminosity that swung slowly to and fro across the murky sky. Other searchlights were also trained upwards in the hope of spotting yet other undesirable aerial visitors from Hunland.
A quarter of a mile away a red glow marked the spot where the Gotha had crashed, although the actual wreckage was hidden by a considerable concourse of people, both military and civilian, who signified their delight at the raider's downfall by prolonged and lusty cheers.
An anti-aircraft officer, his features partly hidden by the upturned collar of his "British warm", hurried up to the spot where Derek was standing.
"Sorry, old man!" he exclaimed apologetically. "I was responsible for bringing you down, I'm afraid. Didn't know that any of our machines were up. No telephone message came through to us. I hadn't a chance to distinguish the markings on your plane. Deuced sorry—very!"
"There's little harm done," replied Derek as well as his chattering teeth would allow. "My fault entirely. I ought to have——"
"No fear!" replied the anti-aircraft man. "My mistake absolutely. Here; it's no use arguing the point about responsibility. You're coming back to our mess and to get a fresh rig-out."
Up dashed a closed-in motor-car. Into this Derek was assisted, the battery captain accompanying him, and amid the cheers of the now dense crowd of sightseers the destroyer of the Gotha was borne away.
A hot bath and a change of clothing provided by willing hands quickly restored Derek to an almost normal condition—but not quite. Pardonably he was excited at the thought of having accomplished a good deed, but in reply to numerous congratulations he frankly stated that it was a piece of sheer good luck.