aged condition, whereupon the rest retire. The
British machines finish their job and return with useful information.

But the party is no longer complete. The pilot who thought of joy-rides
was in the rear machine, and the rear machine has disappeared. Two Huns
cut him off when the rest began to follow the British formation.

His observer takes careful aim at the nearest enemy, and rattles through
a whole drum as the German sweeps down and past, until he is out of
range. The pilot vertical-turns the machine, and makes for the second
Boche. But this gentleman, refusing to continue the fight alone, dives
to join his companion. The pair of them hover about for a few minutes,
and then disappear eastward.

The lonely pilot and observer look round and take their bearings.

"Where are the others?" shouts the pilot down the speaking-tube.

"Right away to the north; we are alone in the wicked world." Thus the
observer's reply, handed across on a slip of paper.

Hoping to catch sight of the reconnaissance party, my friend the pilot
opens his engine full out and begins to follow the course that remained
to be covered. For ten minutes he continues the attempt to catch up, but
as the only aeroplanes to be seen are coming up from an enemy aerodrome
he decides to get back alone as quickly as possible. He turns due west.

The homing bird must fly in the teeth of a strong west wind. It
struggles along gamely, and the pilot calculates that he may reach the
lines within twenty-five minutes. But he has a queer feeling that
trouble is ahead, and, like his observer, he turns his head around the
horizon, so as not to be caught unprepared.

All goes well for five minutes, except for some nasty Archie shells.
Then the two men see a flock of aircraft at a great height, coming from
the north. Although black crosses cannot be spotted at this range, the
shape and peculiar whiteness of the wings make it probable that the
strangers are hostile. Possibly they are the very people who attacked
and followed the reconnaissance formation.

Our pilot puts down the nose of his machine, and races westward. The
strangers, making good use of their extra height, turn south-west and
try to head him off. They gain quickly, and pilot and observer brace
themselves for a fight against odds.

The Germans are now about 700 feet higher than my friends, and directly
above them. Four enemies dive, at an average speed of 150 miles an hour,
and from all directions