The speed of the car diminished. The biplane was vol-planing in short spirals immediately above. Evidently the engine had "konked out" and the pilot was seeking a suitable landing-ground.
Down came the machine, pancaking badly. Both tyres burst simultaneously with a loud report, while the tail rose in the air like a mute signal of distress.
Out of the pilot's seat clambered a figure dressed in the regulation outfit. Hardly troubling to examine the damage to his 'bus, he pushed up his fur-rimmed goggles, and, waving his arms, began to run towards the road with the intention of attracting the attention of the driver of the motor.
Derek gave orders to stop, and awaited the arrival of the pilot.
"Mornin', Jimmy," exclaimed the new-corner, on seeing that Derek wore the R.A.F. uniform. "Can you give me a lift as far as Le Tenetoir aerodrome?"
"That's where I'm bound for, old son," replied Derek. "What's wrong?"
"Run out of petrol. Union leaking, I fancy. Rotten old 'bus—never gave a fellow a chance. They are all alike, dash 'em."
"Jump in," interrupted Daventry brusquely. "I'm in a hurry. No, not here, in the front seat, if you please. Right-o!—full speed ahead, driver; let her rip!"
Derek leant back against the cushions, and, holding his precious dispatch-case with one hand, meditatively contemplated the castor-oil-stained back of the airman in front.
With a sudden jerk the car pulled up before the sentry at the entrance to Le Tenetoir aerodrome. It did the tyres no good, but the driver chose the lesser of two evils, since it was decidedly unhealthy to ignore a challenge in war-time, especially when a sentry is smart with his trigger-finger.