TURNING THE TABLES
FOR a few seconds Dick stood dumfounded. The smith, full of apologies
for the deliberate insolence of his assistant towards a German
officer, hurriedly explained.
"The swine is an English prisoner," he said. "He was lent to me from
a camp at Meseritz. If the rest of these Englishmen give so much
trouble as this one I feel sorry for the good Germans to whom they
are hired out. I pay this rascal a mark a week and feed him, and only
by threatening to send him back to camp for punishment could I get
him to work at all. But I was beginning to think I had broken his
spirit, and now he goes back to his old ways."
"Let me see if I can cow him, smith," said Dick. "You cannot speak
the English tongue, I suppose? No; well, I can, although it is a
barbarous language, hardly fit for good Germans to use. I will
frighten him. He will know what it means to refuse to work at the
orders of a Saxon officer."
"The matter is in your hands, herr leutnant," replied the smith,
obsequiously.
"It's all right, my man," began Dick, addressing his luckless fellow
countryman. "Don't look astonished. I'm supposed to be jawing you.
Look as sullen as you can. That's better. This is part of a British
machine. We're stranded three miles out. Set to work as hard as you
can, without giving the show away, and I'll do my level best to get
you away. We're in a bit of a hole ourselves, but with this job set
right we can make another start."
"Thought something was fishy, sir," replied the man. "Hun flying
officers don't sport 'wings'; leastways, I've never seed 'em. Yours
puzzled me a bit, but I'm getting past being astonished at anything."
"It's lucky for me that this old smith isn't as cute as you are,"
rejoined Dick. "Now I'll tell him I've made you promise to slog in.
I'll let him know that you are to carry the rod back to the
battleplane. I'll order him, and he daren't refuse."
"His bad fit is soon over this time, her leutnant," remarked the
smith, as the prisoner resumed his post at the bellows. "And this is
peculiar metal--so light. Do I temper it in water or oil?"
"Oil," replied Dick promptly, not that he was sure of it, but because
it was unwise to profess ignorance.
Half an hour later the smith, puffing and blowing like a grampus,
completed the task, apologising for the roughness of the finish.
"It will be as strong as ever it was," he declared. "The roughness is
to be regretted, but after all, the makeshift job will last until you
return. Is it to the Russian front, herr leutnant?"
"No, to the Bulgarian," replied Dick. "Only this terrific gale blew
us out of our course. We were indeed lucky to land at all, except as
a crew of corpses. Now, how much is your charge?"
The smith named quite a small sum. Experience had taught him the
folly of demanding anything more of a German officer.
Dick paid him by means of the mark notes that Athol had taken from
the spy, Karl von Secker, and with which his chum had thoughtfully
provided him before setting off for the village.
"And now," he continued. "I must have your English prisoner to carry
the thing back. I will make him return within three hours."
"He may take it into his head to escape, herr leutnant," objected the
smith. "You will understand that I am responsible."
"I order you," said Dick sternly.
"In which case I must obey," replied the German. "But if your
excellency will permit me, I will go with him. It will ease my mind
of a lot of worry, and in these times one has quite enough trouble
what with war taxes and food tickets."
"It is forbidden to criticise the actions of the government," said
Dick sternly.
"True, true, herr leutnant. I deeply apologise. I trust it will go no
further," said the smith tremblingly. "But it is permissible that I
go with the man?"
"You seem fonder of the man than I do," grumbled the pseudo-Saxon.
"Does it always pour like this in Posen? Come along, then, we must
hasten."
The English prisoner shot an enquiring glance at Dick as the smith
began to don a heavy coat.
"It's all right," said the lad reassuringly. "The old fool insists
upon coming. We'll deal with him all right later on."
With no additional protection from the driving rain, which was now
full in their faces, the thinly clad British Tommy shouldered the
repaired rod and followed Dick into the street. The smith brought up
the rear, cursing to himself as his weakly legs sank into the mud,
that he had to dance attendance on an officer and a Saxon. There was
one consolation, he argued. His patron might have been a Prussian, in
which case kicks, not paper-money, might have been his reward.
Upon clearing the outskirts of the village Dick struck the sunken
lane, keeping, as before, on the higher ground by the side, although
by this time the deluge had left little to choose in the matter of a
firm footing. He kept steadily onwards, striving the while to locate
the place where he had to turn of across the trackless waste. The
British Tommy, he knew, would stick closer than a brother; whether
the smith would persist in forcing his company upon him troubled him
but little. Even if the fellow was shrewd enough to discover that the
battleplane was not a German one not much harm was likely to result,
unless the smith proved particularly obstreperous.
Dick had already gained the comforting information that there were no
troops within twenty or thirty miles, and that the village was
practically devoid of able-bodied men; so that, in the event of
missing the spot where Blake and his comrades were, the lad would
have no hesitation in firing a revolver to attract their attention.
For the present, however, he refrained from using the weapon. For one
thing he was rather anxious to return unaided; for another the
direction and force of the wind rendered futile all sound signals
until he was very much closer to the stranded battleplane.
At long intervals Dick glanced over his shoulder. The now drenched
soldier was trudging stolidly along; the smith was making heavy
going, and showing visible signs of distress. Had Dick wished he
could have outstripped the man without difficulty.
"Can't be far off now," he soliloquised. "Seems to me I've tramped
nearly five miles."
He stopped and scanned the surrounding countryside. As far as the
driving rain permitted the land presented a flat appearance without
any outstanding characteristics--a treeless expanse of mud.
The smith must have guessed the lad's perplexity, for a curious look
overspread his coarse features.
"Herr leutnant has lost his way?" enquired he. "Or, perhaps, the
machine has flown off?"
"Silence!" exclaimed Dick fiercely. This time there was no need to
impersonate the irate officer: he was genuinely furious with the
fellow.
"Some one signalling, sir, on our right," declared the Tommy, whereat
the smith, either surprised at the Englishman's audacity or anxious
to vent his spleen upon the luckless prisoner, stooped, picked up a
handful of mud and hurled it at him.
"They are our friends," exclaimed Dick joyously. "Keep yourself under
control a few minutes longer. We mustn't let this low-down rascal
smell a rat until we're ready for action again. May as well make him
useful."
"Stop there till I tell you," ordered the lad, addressing the German.
"You can keep a sharp eye on your assistant from where you are
standing."
Then, bidding the Tommy follow, he hurried across the intervening
hundred yards that separated him from his comrades. Unbeknown to all,
Dick had actually passed within almost hailing distance of the
battleplane without seeing it or being seen by Athol and the
sergeant, until the hollow in which the machine rested was well on
his right hand.
"Whom have you here?" asked Blake.
"A British soldier, hired out as a sort of slave to the village
blacksmith," explained Dick. "We'll have to keep up the deceit until
we set the rod in position; then it will be a huge joke to enlighten
the rascally Hun on certain points."
Having given a rapid report on what had taken place, Dick assisted
the inventor in replacing the actuating rod. In twenty minutes the
work was completed, although on testing the machine Blake discovered
that owing to some slight and almost imperceptible curve in the metal
the rod was nearly a quarter of an inch shorter than before.
"May make a slight difference to our trim," said Blake. "However,
flight alone will prove that. You see we haven't been idle. We have
been repairing the larger rents in the wings. Now, all aboard. Dick,
show your protégé the way. We'll give him a dry suit and some hot
grub. Poor beggar, he's half dead with hunger and exposure."
"'Arf a mo', sir," protested the man. "Before I go can I have a word
with yon chap?" And he indicated the still waiting smith, who was now
heartily sick of the whole business, and was wishing that he had
taken his chances in letting his assistant go alone.
"Very good," agreed Blake, thinking that the Tommy wished
particularly to say something to the Hun.
The man plodded stolidly towards the smith until he got within a
couple of yards.
"Put your dooks up, old sport," he exclaimed, at the same time
"squaring up" to the astonished German.
Having no longer an iron bar with which to assert his authority, the
smith showed no great eagerness to accept the challenge. If he
expected the officers to intervene he was grievously mistaken.
At length in desperation, for the Tommy was edging nearer, with grim
anticipation written on his gaunt features, the Hun threw himself
into a defensive position. That was all his former assistant
required; for the next moment the bully was sprawling on his back in
a foot of liquid mud.
Apparently the British soldier considered that old scores were wiped
out, for with the utmost magnanimity he hauled the helpless smith out
of the mire and set him upon his feet. This done he unconcernedly
strolled back to the battleplane.
"Couldn't help it, sir," he explained apologetically. "Had to get it
off my chest. Let bygones be bygones, they used to drill into my head
at school. I reckon that proverb ought to be wiped off the slate
after what our chaps have gone through out yonder. Penal servitude
ain't in it: it's slaving with starvation chucked in."
"Let's hope your troubles are now over, my man," quoth Blake as he
took his seat at the helm. "All ready, Dick?... Hold on a minute."
The smith, finding that his assistant was on the point of being
spirited away in the huge flying machine, came floundering towards
them. Much as he feared being left alone with the pugnacious
Englishman he dreaded having to report his loss to the commandant of
the prison camp.
"Good-bye, smith," shouted Dick in German. "Don't be in too great a
hurry to inform the authorities that you have been aiding the English
by repairing one of their battleplanes. Kaiser Wilhelm might be very
angry with you."
The next instant the machine rose with a bound, and fleeting before
the still strong westerly gale, resumed her flight towards the
Russian frontier, leaving the astonished and dumfounded smith to
realise the magnitude of his unwitting offence against the German
Empire.
For the next few hours the aerial voyage was comparatively
uneventful. The rescued prisoner, who gave his name as Private Tom
Smith, of the "Chalkshires," and who had been taken prisoner early in
the campaign, was now fast asleep, after a good hot meal and a change
of clothing.
The battleplane, flying at an immense height, was now far above the
rain-clouds and bathed in brilliant sunshine. Looking downwards
nothing was visible of the earth, a seemingly unlimitable expanse of
dazzling white clouds forming an effectual screen between the airmen
and the dreary soil of East Prussia.
"Time we descended to verify our position," announced Blake.
"Although in this case it is preferable to overshoot the mark we
don't want a long flight against this gale if we can help it."
Cleaving her way through the clouds and leaving an eddying wake of
fleecy vapour behind her, the battleplane again came within sight of
the earth.
It was no longer raining. A clear view could be obtained for
miles--but instead of the flat plains of Russia a vast sea met the
airmen's gaze.
"We're a bit out," declared Blake. "We're right over the Baltic."
Before either of the lads could comment upon the somewhat
disconcerting nature of the discovery Blake suddenly thrust a lever
hard over, automatically locking the wings.
"Take charge, Athol," he exclaimed hurriedly. "Keep her as steady as
you can, and check any tendency for her to heel. I'm going outside
for a few moments."
To the young airmen's astonishment the inventor began to discard his
heavy coat and boots.
"What's wrong?" enquired Athol.
"Only that rod," replied Blake. "The securing nut is working loose.
We can't afford to let both drop or it will mean complete disaster
for us all."
"Then I'm the man for that job," decided the lad promptly. "I'm light
and agile and--and----"
He stopped abruptly. It was on the tip of his tongue to add the words
"you are not," but checked himself in time.
Every moment was precious. There was no time for argument. Blake
instantly realised the force of his young assistant's remarks and
acquiesced.
Knotting a rope round his waist, and holding a spanner in his mouth,
Athol dropped lightly upon the rigidly locked wing, gripping the
foremost edge in order to save himself from being swept away by the
terrific rush of air.
Foot by foot he made his way along the trembling fabric until his
head and shoulders projected beyond the tip of the aluminium wing.
Although by this time well acquainted with dizzy heights the lad dare
not look down upon the distant expanse of water. He kept his eyes
fixed upon the loose nut, a foot or so on the underside of the wing.
Only three or four threads were holding. In a few minutes, had not
the defect been noticed, the actuating rod would have become
detached, with the result that the wing, no longer held in position,
would have folded itself. Like a crippled bird the battleplane would
have crashed through thousands of feet with incredible speed, sealing
the fate of all on board.
"Got you, you brute!" ejaculated Athol triumphantly as he gave a
final wrench to the now secure nut.
The task accomplished it was no easy matter for the lad to regain the
chassis. Temporarily exhausted with his exertions and buffeted by the
cutting wind he lacked the strength to haul himself from the wing to
the upper side of the fuselage; but Dick came to Athol's aid, and at
length the lad was dragged into safety.
"Good man!" exclaimed Blake approvingly as he again actuated the
wings.
There was little margin to spare. Already the battleplane had
volplaned to within a thousand feet of the sea.
It was not until the mechanical bird had regained her former altitude
that her crew were able to discuss the factor that had carried them
so far out of their course. An explanation was necessary in order to
explain satisfactorily why, instead of being over the province of
Courland, the airmen found themselves miles from land and over the
expansive Baltic.