"There she is!" cried some one, as one of the searchlights caught her.
"As you like, Dastral. There's your target. Get into your togs quickly and I'll take the risk of it. I must leave you for a moment now. Those fellows in 'C' Flight are waiting to go up," and with that the O.C. turned round and dashed off, while Dastral, without waiting for anything further, got into a huge leathern coat, pilot's boots, and donned the flying helmet with long ear flaps and queer-looking goggles, which an air-mechanic had brought him.
Two minutes later the young pilot climbed into the 'plane, gave a final look round, waved a good-bye to Tim, whose pale face, now working with intense excitement, he discerned in the darkness.
"All ready, sir?" asked the Flight-Sergeant.
Dastral gave him a nod, and prepared to switch on the the current.
"Swing the propellor!" came next, and as the cool, calculating pilot pulled a switch, the mighty engine broke into its terrible song.
"Rep-p-p, rep-p-p! Whir-r-r!"
"Stand clear!" and away went the monoplane like a bullet out of a gun. As she started, a searchlight was deflected in a long beam along the ground, to give the daring young aviator the direction for his take-off, for the dangers of night-flying are many, as more than one brave pilot has found to his cost before now.
At a hundred yards the "Bullet" sprang into the air, and soared upward at a tremendous speed, being quickly lost to sight, as the searchlights tried once more to find the raider, which had found things too warm, and had sought again the shelter of the clouds.
By short and rapid spirals, Dastral soon reached a thousand feet. Every now and then he turned his little shaded electric lamp on to the indicator, which seemed to vibrate merrily, and almost to smile, as its little rounded dial told the altitude. Up and up they went, and the indicator almost laughed with joy as it clicked out the figures: