"Is she steering due west?" the chief asked.
"About two degrees south, that's all," replied Carl. "She's evidently getting a little drift from the upper currents."
"Good!" remarked the chief airman. "Then if she continues steering steady, she should pass within a couple of miles of us in another twenty or twenty-five minutes. Come along, Carl, it is time for us to get away. You will remain on the ground, Max. You have a difficult job. As soon as we get away, see that the tents are struck, and all men and horses placed under cover of the trees."
"Yes, sir."
"And now sound the alarm signal, and help us to get out the Scorpion; it is going to bite to-day," ordered the Rittmeister as he strode away, exclaiming,
"Who wouldn't be a king of the desert? For one day at least it will be, 'Deutschland, Deutschland ueber alles!'"
The alarm being sounded, all the occupants of the little camp went to quarters, just as they had been rehearsed during the last few days. The camouflaged fabric was stripped from the little hangar, and the Scorpion was set free to bite once more. She was released from the ropes which held her down and turned head to wind. The steel folding wings were snapped back into their sockets and made secure.
"Are you ready, Carl?" asked the chief, as he completed his rapid survey of the machine, during which neither the propellers, planes, tail-fin nor rudder escaped his scrutiny.
"Aye, ready, sir!" came the reply from the junior, who was now seated in the armour-plated conning-tower, testing the controls and examining his machine guns.
Without a moment's delay the chief clambered up through the little trapdoor and joined his companion. Then he paused for a moment whilst he swept the eastern horizon with his powerful binoculars.