“Afraid.” There was contempt in her voice.
“He’d better be!” It was Sparky who spoke. He was standing in the center of the cabin. In his hands he gripped a heavy machine gun.
As the enemy circled closer, he opened a window a crack to send forth a burst of fire.
The plane veered off, swinging around before them, then coming up on the other side.
Sparky had donned his mask. So, too, had Mary. They were getting into thin air. “If only we can hold them off,” Mary thought.
Once again Sparky’s gun spoke, then again and yet again. Like a cowardly wolf-pack the fighters were closing in slowly. There were three of them now.
There came the rat-tat-tat of machine gun fire from the distance. No bullets found their mark.
In desperation Mary set her motors going at a dangerous rate.
“If that burned motor fails me now—” Her heart paused, then raced on.
“Good girl!” Sparky encouraged her. “We’re leaving them behind. They can’t go much farther, not at this altitude. You, you’re looking white around the lips. Here! I’ll take the controls.”