"Three thousand--four thousand feet."
Its quiet voice was drowned in the roar of the engine and the whir-r-r of the propellers, but its face seemed to smile at the pilot and beckon him to victory.
He had got well over towards the enemy's lines, in his circling sweep, for he was determined to keep well between the enemy and his base. Besides, it was good strategy, for the day was breaking and already, up there, he could see the rim of the sun showing over the edge of the eastern horizon.
"I shall have the sun behind my back when the fight begins, and the Huns will have it in their eyes!" he told himself.
At six thousand feet he banked and swept round towards the enemy, still climbing rapidly, for the Boches were at about seven thousand feet. Again and again he made the whizzing Dwarf almost to sit upon her tail, so eager was he to reach seven thousand five hundred.
He felt perfectly happy, and braced for the conflict. His only anxiety was to get to business at once.
"Five thousand--five thousand five hundred feet," said the little dial, and Dastral laughed riotously.
"Seven thousand," came at last, though it seemed an age to the eager pilot.
Glancing down and away to the west, he could see his comrades climbing up to his assistance, for he had left them far behind. The Boches had seen them too, and were diving to attack them, dropping bombs and firing incendiary bullets.
"Capital!" shouted Dastral in high glee, as he saw the enemy make several rapid dives, giving him exactly what he wanted, the weather-gage.