"Starboard bow, Dastral! Look at 'em! What are they? Not mines, surely. Look like porpoises, only they're not dark enough, and they don't tumble about much."
Dastral peered over the side of the cockpit and looked down.
"Can't say," he ejaculated.
"Let's go down a bit lower, old man," said Fisker.
"Aye, aye. Hold tight!" cried the pilot, for he noticed that Jock was standing up and leaning over, unstrapped.
"Right away! I'm all right," replied the observer, squatting down, and pressing his knees against the knee-board, which is the life-line of the aeroplane.
And down they went in a graceful nose-dive till they were within five hundred feet of the surface of the water, with the engines shut off. Then, as they flattened out, both men peered over the side again, and Dastral was the first to exclaim:--
"Porpoises be hanged! They're German mines. A whole string of them floating about in the fairway, ready for the first ship that comes along. The dirty Huns!"
"Snakes alive! So they are. Now I can make them out quite plainly; I can even see the horns and contacts through my glasses. Phew! There'll be a deuce of a mess shortly unless they're cleared up."
"Look alive, old man, or there'll be trouble!" shouted the pilot.