now; the specks
revealed themselves as German aviatiks intent upon cutting off the
retreat of the two remaining British air-craft.

Not until Ross had dropped the remaining bombs did his companion speak.

"We've a bit of a shooting match on," he announced. "Get that rifle
ready. It's under the coaming on your right hand. Sight at three
hundred yards, and let rip when I give the word."

Ross took up the weapon almost as a matter of course. After the
excitement of bomb-dropping and being shelled by shrapnel, the approach
of a fleet of Zeppelins would hardly disturb his equanimity.

Already the third sea-plane, having gained a favourable altitude, was
making straight for her numerous opponents.

The Flight-Sub now began to speed his machine up, climbing in short
spirals, so as to gain what was equivalent to the "weather-gauge" in
the sea battles of Nelson's days.

Ross unslipped the rifle. Mechanically he set the back-sight, and
jerked open the bolt-action to assure himself that the magazine was
charged. As he did so he became aware that the cartridges were bent
and buckled. A piece of shrapnel, passing through the side of the
fuselage, had lodged in the magazine of the rifle. In addition,
although it was possible to withdraw the bolt, the striking-pin had
jammed. As a weapon the rifle was useless. By stopping the shrapnel
bullet the rifle had saved Ross from a serious and perhaps mortal wound.

The midshipman was on the point of reporting the disablement of the
weapon, when the motor gave vent to a peculiar cough and abruptly
stopped. Unknown to the pilot the petrol-tank had been pierced almost
at its lowest point. The remaining petrol had been used up during the
spiraling process. The sea-plane was now at an altitude of three
thousand feet; propulsion, except under the force of gravity, was no
longer possible.

The Flight-Sub was quick to act. Before the hitherto climbing
air-craft began diving tail downwards, he regulated the elevating
planes, and a long volplane ensued. The sea-plane was bound to come to
earth, but it was not on hostile soil that the airman hoped to alight.
His goal was the ground beyond the seemingly endless line of barbed
wire that marked the frontier between Belgium and Holland.

The anti-aircraft guns had now opened fire, blazing furiously away at
the rapidly descending sea-plane. The rapidity of her descent saved
her, for, before the time-fuses could be altered to suit t