Every time Frank Sanderson soared upward in an aeroplane he fully realized that danger rode with him. That was why he was so successful as a pilot. The "ace" is not the man who refuses to recognize the imminent peril of his calling. Sanderson merely did not allow this knowledge, this realization of danger, to influence him in the performance of his duty.
Besides, the young American possessed a quick mind. In connection with his work as an aviator his brain was always alert. He was ready for anything at any time.
This accident, however, was entirely outside the realm of the usual perils of his calling. The unreleased bomb, entangled in the wires of the airplane's chassis, offered a problem that even Sanderson's brain could not instantly solve.
The machine was but a few hundred feet above the ground. Below was the French aviation camp. In a few moments, if Lefevre proceeded, they would make their landing—and then——
Sanderson tapped the pilot on the shoulder. "Wait!" he shouted. "Take a sweep around before you land. There's something we must do first."
"What's that?" demanded Lefevre.
The aeroplane was shooting along on a level again before Sanderson ventured to tell him. The pilot was quite as cool an airman as Sanderson himself, but he, too, was startled.
"Good-night!" he ejaculated. "A bomb caught? Who ever heard the like of that? Why—Sandy!—we're up in the air for good!"
"Looks so," agreed Sanderson, jerking it out, "unless we can make our landing on a nice, soft cloud."
"Humph! And they'll have hard work serving us breakfast up here."