A PRICE ON HIS HEAD
FLIGHT SUB-LIEUTENANT BARCROFT scanned the expanse of water beneath
him. The "Hippodrome" was now a mere speck far away to the west'ard.
Four distinct trails of smoke betokened the fact that British
destroyers were pelting to the scene of the seaplane's victory.
On all other points of the compass the surface of the sea was
deserted.
"Wind up!" exclaimed Barcroft, using the speaking-tube for the first
time since the opening of the duel. "I'm going to have a look at our
bag."
The A.P. began to reel in the trailing length of wireless aerial,
while the pilot, shutting off the motor, began a spiral volplane
towards the surface of the water. His "opposite number"--the
seaplane that had tendered her congratulations--was also gliding
down towards the spot where the Hun aeroplane had struck the
surface. Barcroft recognised her pilot as Lieutenant John Fuller.
The white patch of foam that had been created by the terrific impact
of the wrecked machine had already vanished, but a series of
everdiverging concentric circles of iridescent oil marked the spot.
The monoplane had sunk like a stone.
"No use going any lower," announced the Flight-sub, as he prepared
to restart the engine.
"Hold hard!" exclaimed the observer. "There's something floating. I
believe, by smoke! it's the Boche pilot."
"That alters the case, then," decided Barcroft. "We'll investigate
still further."
The Hun showed no signs of life. Kept up by his inflated jacket he
floated on his back, his legs and arms trailing listlessly and his
wide open eyes staring vacantly into the element through which a few
minutes previously he had been flying for his life.
The British seaplane alighted within a stone's throw of the corpse.
Gravely both pilot and observer saluted the vanquished. Whether he
deserved the honour or not the victors did not pause to consider. He
might have been the cause of the deaths of a score or more
inoffensive civilians--women and children perhaps; but death wipes
out old scores. Barcroft and his companion merely recognised the
dead airman as an opponent worthy of their steel, and as such he was
entitled to the homage that one brave man pays to another. Of his
past record they knew nothing. Their tribute was the spontaneous
acknowledgment of a well-contested fight.
Slowly the seaplane taxied until one of the floats was within a foot
or so of the Hun airman's corpse. Agilely Kirkwood swung himself
over the side of the fuselage and swarmed down one of the supporting
struts to the broad float.
"Ugh!" he soliloquised. "The fellow's grinning at me."
Securing the body the A.P. deftly opened the leather jacket. From
the inner breast pocket he withdrew a bulky pocket-book, a map and
an envelope, sealed and addressed and enclosed in oiled silk.
Further search produced a gunmetal watch. On the lid was inscribed
in High German characters: "War substitute in lieu of gold watch
patriotically surrendered by Unter-leutnant E. von Buelow und
Helferich." A purse completed the list of articles found on the
body.
"Buck up!" exclaimed Barcroft. "It will be dark in another twenty
minutes."
Thus abjured Kirkwood opened the valve of the dead airman's inflated
jacket. Slowly the corpse sank beneath the surface to find a
temporary resting-place on the bed of the North Sea. Night had
fallen by the time the seaplanes had returned to their parent ship
and had been safely housed. The "Hippodrome," steaming with screened
lights and escorted by the vigilant destroyers, resumed her belated
run for home waters.
Barcroft and Kirkwood, in the large and well-lighted wardroom, were
examining the "effects" of their victim, while a crowd of
flying-officers stood round to watch the proceedings.
The A.P. had separated the Hun's personal belongings and was making
them up into a parcel, to be sealed and delivered to the dead
aviator's relatives when opportunity occurred. It was a point of
etiquette faithfully carried out by the airmen of both sides
whenever circumstances made it possible.
Barcroft was studiously scanning the documents that were not of a
personal nature. The map was a German production, and comprised a
large scale area of Kent. Probably it was based upon the British
Ordnance Survey, supplemented by details gathered by the swarm of
Hun spies who more or less openly infested the length and breadth of
the British Isles, prior to the memorable month of August 1914. Yet
there was clear evidence of the map being brought up to date,
recently-erected munition factories and other places of military
importance being faithfully recorded. The margin was embellished
with photographic reproductions of views of conspicuous landmarks
taken from a considerable altitude.
"Jolly rummy how these Boche birds get hold of these views,"
commented Fuller. "I swear they didn't take them unless they've been
running daylight trips in noiseless and practically invisible
'planes. It's their strafed organisation that is so wonderful. Knock
holes in that and it's all up with Hunland. Hullo, Billy, what's the
excitement?"
Barcroft, holding up a paper he had taken from the pocket-book, was
studying it with the deepest interest, while his face was dimpled
with lines of suppressed laughter.
"By Jove!" he exclaimed. "Won't the governor be bucked? Listen to
this, you fellows. I'll have to go slow, as some of the
tongue-splitting words take a bit of translating:
"'It is my Royal and Imperial command that steps be taken to secure
the person of the Englishman Peter Barcroft, residing at Rivers dale
House, near Alderdene, in the county of Kent, the said Peter
Barcroft having published or caused to be published books
that--that--(can't quite make out what's Schriftsteller? Ah! I have
it) of which he is the author, the same books treating Us with
libellous contempt. To the good German who succeeds in producing the
said Peter Barcroft alive on German soil will be paid the reward of
twenty thousand marks. In the event of the said Peter Barcroft being
slain by the act of one of my subjects the reward will be ten
thousand marks.--Wilhelm, I.R.'"
"So that's what Unter-leutnant E. von Buelow und Helferich was on the
stunt for," remarked Fuller. "Yes, by smoke! there's a red circle
drawn round the village of Alderdene. Billy, my festive, your pater
will have to look out for himself."
"Perhaps the Hun has already wiped Riversdale House out of
existence," said Barcroft with a hearty laugh.
His brother officers looked at him in astonishment. His levity, at
the possibility of his parent's annihilation by a few hundred pounds
of high explosive, seemed altogether out of place.
"Steady, old man," exclaimed Tarleton, the senior "flight-luff."
"Can't help it," continued Barcroft, vainly endeavouring to suppress
his mirth. "Fancy a Boche going all that way on a fruitless errand,
even supposing he did drop a plum within half a mile of the house.
The governor vacated the show last quarter-day, and it's still
empty. There isn't another house within a couple of miles of it, and
it belongs to a regular pig of a lawyer-josser who's at loggerheads
with everybody. Let's hope, if the house is pulverised, that it
isn't insured against hostile aircraft. I'm not vindictive, but it
would serve the bounder right."
"Where's your governor now?" enquired Fuller.
"Eh? Entering for the Kaiser's Stakes, old man? Well, here's a clue.
He's moved to Tarleigh, a little show somewhere in Lancashire. About
six or seven miles from Barborough, I believe, and the same distance
from anywhere else. At any rate, I'm off there directly I get my
leave. By Jove, won't the old man feel honoured!--a price set on his
head by Irresponsible Bill. He'll feel as proud as Punch. By the
bye--don't all speak at once--who's pinched my matches?"