"I've never seen anything like her," exclaimed another member of "B" Flight. "I don't think the Huns have anything to equal her."
"Not even their Fokkers?" ventured one of the pilots, who was already seated in the little cockpit, trying her controls, for he was just longing to take her aloft. "And you came from London in an hour and a quarter?" asked Dastral of the ferry-pilot, helping him out of his thick leather coat.
"Yes, quite easily," replied the latter.
"And you never even pushed her?"
"I never opened the throttle to the full till I rushed the Channel, half an hour ago."
"And then you let her rip?"
"Yes, I did then. She fairly seemed to leap over the English Channel. She touched one hundred and sixty miles, and for a while she quite frightened me."
"Phew! I should think so. What the deuce shall we get to next? One hundred and sixty miles an hour! Great Scott! I'd give ten years of my life to meet Himmelman on her, when I've fairly tried her," said Dastral quietly.
There was a note of silence when the Flight-Commander spoke thus, for he did not often express himself like that, though every one knew that the ambition of his life was to meet the German air-fiend on equal terms, and fate had decreed that before very long his wish should be gratified.
After this, they all adjourned to the messroom, and, for that evening, and the next, the ferry-pilot was their guest.