The Dornier had received a ten-second burst of gunfire, hundreds of slugs, straight down her pencil-like fuselage. What would be the result? They must wait and see.
The Dornier lost its steady, straight onward flight. It began to smoke, then to lose altitude. Just then it went into a cloud.
“Dumb!” said Harmon.
Fearlessly Dave drove into that cloud. It was a long one. A full minute passed, another, and they were out.
Beyond them now was all clear, blue sky. There was no spot against that patch of blue.
The Young Lord took the controls. They spiralled downward toward the sea. At last they were beneath the cloud. There was nothing hiding there. But on the surface of the sea was a white spot. It was not foam. There were no white-caps.
“Tat-tat-tat—Down goes Hun”
“Good!” exclaimed the Young Lord. “We’ll head for home. If we hurry a bit we’ll be in time for tea.” And they were.
“We got that Dornier right enough,” the Young Lord whispered the minute they were on solid ground again. “But not a word about this! It’s frightfully irregular, I’m afraid.”