Two bullets whizzed by Tom's head. Prescott fired three shots
instantly, one of them taking effect, for the German officer went
to earth and lay there, his pistol now silent.

From behind the hangar several members of the guard came rushing
from their tents. By the time they were in front of the hangar
they could shoot only by guess, and might hit their own comrades
in the troop camp. So they fired into the air, wildly, rapidly.

So much shooting was bound to rouse the troop camp, and did.
The sentries came out on the jump. While some fired star shells
that lighted the sky, others took quick aim with their rifles.

Aiming at the figures on the ground as best he could, just as
Reade left the ground for the air, Prescott fired, loaded and
fired, jamming in a fresh magazine whenever the automatic became
emptied.

Twenty feet up in the air, fifty, a hundred! Tom Reade rose as
fast as he could make the machine move. More star shells, and
now the anti-aircraft guns came into action.

At three hundred feet above the ground shells exploded about the
fugitives. One lucky shot of the enemy would be enough to bring
them to earth.

The pistol was now too hot to use further. Dick sat back, closing
his eyes, while Reade drove at all the speed he could compel,
ever rising higher. Both Americans knew that other anti-aircraft
guns further south would be turned upon them.

Finally Tom, after a glance at the barograph, roared at Prescott:

"Five thousand feet up on a dark night, and we're going to fifteen
thousand feet. All we now have to fear will be other German aircraft,
but there'll be fleets of them sent out to look for us!" Prescott
nodded, though he could not hear in the roar of the motors and
the rush of the air past him.

A mile below them the blackness of the night was punctured by
a lively little volcano of red and yellow jets. A dozen anti-aircraft
guns opened fire on the fugitive airplane, whose course must have
been telephoned along the line. Some of the shells burst so close
that fragments of metal whizzed about the ears of both Americans;
some of the shells went far wide of the mark, but at least two
of the gunners followed the moving craft for the distance of a
mile with an accuracy that caused the two fugitives in the sky
the liveliest uneasiness. The gunners were aiming by the sound
of the engines.

"Give us fifteen minutes more at this speed,"

Tom roared, "and we'll be back over our own