“But neither badly,” was the quiet reply.
“There! Oh! There!” she exclaimed. “The Spitfire has gone into a nose dive!”
“Don’t expect too much. He’s not badly hurt.”
Scarcely had Sparky spoken when the enemy plane, coming out of his dive, spun around in a narrow circle to get on Ramsey’s tail and let forth a burst of fire.
“Oh! He’s got him! Poor Ramsey’s gone!”
“Give me the controls.” Sparky took over while, with lips parted, eyes staring, Mary watched for the end.
The end was not yet. Ramsey’s slender fighter staggered, spun half about, tilted over, did two complete flip-flops, then by some miracle, or by the sheer will-power of her master, righted herself.
By some good chance, Ramsey found himself facing his on-coming opponent. He must have pressed the firing button and given her the works for the enemy plane appeared to fall to pieces in mid-air—not, however, until its pilot had sent one more burst of fire into Ramsey’s smoking plane.
“He’s on fire! He’s going down!” Mary shouted. At that moment she was seeing war in all its stark naked horror.
“There! Your friend Ramsey’s out of the plane,” Sparky said quietly as ever.