"Quite so, old scout," declared Sanderson. He felt easier now that Lefevre was taking it calmly.
"Well," the latter added, "my will's in father's safe. Willy may have my skates and my red mittens. By Jove, Sandy, it'll be some finish!"
"Not our finish," declared Sanderson vigorously. He thought of Belinda. If she had fallen a victim to the Prussians he would not have cared much what became of him; but he was optimistic enough to believe that both Belinda and he would finally escape from their perils.
"What shall we do?" staccatoed Lefevre.
"Be Flying Dutchmen, and roam about the air forever more," suggested Frank.
"Like Noah's first dove—not finding any rest for the soles of our feet. But our gas is going to give out some time, if nothing else."
"Our patience is going to give out first," declared Frank.
These opinions had been shouted, of course, for the roaring of the motor and the wind whining through the stays of the aeroplane made an ordinary tone of conversation impossible.
"See here!" exclaimed Lefevre at last. "Isn't there anything you can reach it with and unhook the bomb?"
"Of course. Mother's clothes pole. Wait till I get it," scoffed Sanderson. "And if it could be unhooked, what then? It wouldn't do a bit of good down yonder," and he gestured toward the aviation camp in plain view. "Dropping bombs on one's own camp isn't done, you know, Lefevre—it really isn't done!"