“Whale or a submarine?” the young Lord barked into his receiver.
“Whale,” was old Jock’s instant response. So they soared on.
It was only after their gasoline supply began running low that they at last rose into the blue to go zooming to a landing field in the north of Scotland.
There, after darkness had fallen, Alice slipped away to a little hotel where no questions were asked. When, however, she told what she dared of their mission, she was accorded the hospitality due a queen and in the morning not a cent would her hostess accept.
“It’s our own war,” said the good lady, “and may the good Lord bless you.”
The second day was more than half gone. The girl’s eyes were red with watching when she called in her phone, “I—I hear the sound of firing.”
Every headset was removed.
“Not a sound but the motors. Not a sound,” was the report.
“Climb. Then shut off your motors,” Alice insisted.
It was done, and from the west to their listening ears came the roar of heavy guns.