Aside from the two men he had seen shot down upon the after deck of the
Zeppelin, Tom Cameron soon made out that the airplane attack upon the
larger airship must have done other damage. He was glad if this was so.
The regrettable fact that he had killed two men would be offset, in his
mind, if the bullets of the machine gun had made difficult the sailing
of the Zeppelin to London.
He had seen the chipped and dented rail and deck across which the hail
of machine-gun bullets had swept. He hoped that there had been done some
injury of greater moment than these marks betrayed. And he believed that
there was such injury.
If not, why was the Zeppelin limping along the airways so slowly through
the fog? The commander of the great machine had been called to the
forward deck, and that not merely for the conning of the ship on its
course, Tom was sure. Suppose he had been the means, after all, of
crippling the Zeppelin?
The thought filled the young American's heart with delight. Much as he
was depressed by the death of Ralph Stillinger, the American ace, Tom
could not fail to be overjoyed at the thought of setting the Zeppelin
back in this attempt to reach England.
The Germans might have to return to their base for repairs. Of course,
Tom was a prisoner, and there was not a chance of his getting away;
still, he could feel delight because of this possibility that roweled
his mind.
He tried to peer through the thick glass of the window in the forward
closet of the Zeppelin cabin. Mistily he saw the hairy-coated Germans
moving about on the forward deck. He could not recognize the
_ober-leutnant_ who seemed to be in command of the ship; but he saw that
several of the men were at work repairing some of the wire stays that
had been broken.
As the fog partially cleared for a moment, he was enabled to make out a
box of a house far forward on this first deck. It was probably where the
steering gear was located. Just where the motors and engines were boxed
he did not know. A fellow in that pilot-house--if such it was--might do
something of moment, he told himself. If he could once get there, Tom
Cameron thought, he would make it impossible for the Zeppelin ever to
reach England, unless it drifted there by accident.
It was a rather dispiriting situation, however, to be locked in this
narrow closet. He had already tried the door and found that it was
secure. Besides, anybody on the deck, by coming close to the window,
could look in and see if he was still imprisoned.
An hour passed, then another. The Zeppelin's speed was not increased,
nor did he see the commander in all the time.
He believed the airship must have drifted out over the sea.
Although the cabin arrangements on the Zeppelin made the place where Tom
Cameron was confined almost soundproof, the jar and rumble of the ship's
powerful motors were audible. Now there grew upon his hearing another
sound. It was a note deeper than that of the motors, and of an
organ-like timber. A continuous current of noise, rather pleasant than
otherwise, was this new sound. He could not at first understand what it
meant.
The fog was still thick about the airship. He believed they had
descended several thousand feet. It was now close to mid-forenoon, and
as a usual thing the fog would have disappeared by this hour over the
land.
It must be that the Zeppelin had reached the sea. Whatever material
injury she had suffered, the commander had by no means given up his
intention of following out his orders to reach the English coast.
It was at this point in his ruminations that Tom suddenly became
possessed of a new idea--an explanation of the organ-like sound he heard.
It was the surf on the coast! The ship must be drifting over the French
coastline, and the sound of the surf breaking on the rocks was the sound
he heard.
Tom possessed a good memory, and he had not been studying maps of the
Western Front daily for nothing. He knew, very well indeed, the country
over which he had flown with poor Ralph Stillinger.
He had located to a nicety the spot where they mounted into the
fog-cloud to escape the German pursuit-planes. Then had come the
discovery of the Zeppelin beneath, and the catastrophe that had
followed.
The Zeppelin had been sailing seaward, and was near the coast at the
time Tom had so thrillingly boarded it; and he was sure that if it had
changed its course, this change had been to the southwestward. It was
following the French coast, rather than drifting over Belgium.
These ruminations were scarcely to the point, however; Tom desired to do
something, not to remain inactive.
But the time did not seem propitious. He dared not attempt breaking out
of his prison. And although he still had his automatic pistol, he would
be foolish to try to fight this whole German crew.
He was startled from his reverie by the unlocking of the door and the
odor of warm food. Nor was it "bully beef" or beans, the two staples
that gladden the hearts of the American soldier.
A meek-looking German private entered with a steaming tureen of ragout,
or stew, a plate of dark bread, and a mug of hot drink. He bowed to Tom
very ceremoniously and placed the tray on the couch.
"Der gomblements of der commander," he said, gutturally, and backed out
of the narrow doorway.
"He's all right, your commander!" exclaimed Tom impulsively, making for
the fare with all the zest of good appetite.
The German grinned, and faded out. He closed the door softly. Tom had
already dipped into the stew and found it excellent (and of rabbit)
before it crossed his mind that he had not heard the key click in the
lock of the door.
He stopped eating to listen. He heard nothing from the outer cabin.
"But that grinning, simple-looking Heinie may not be as foolish as he
appears. The fellow may have left the door unlocked to trap me," Tom
muttered.
He continued to eat the plentiful meal furnished him, while he tried to
think the situation out to a reasonable conclusion. Had the German
forgotten to lock the door? Or was it a scheme to trap him? It already
mystified Tom why he had not been deprived of his pistol. He could not
understand such carelessness. Was the commander of the Zeppelin so
confident that he was both harmless and helpless?
He remembered that when he was first seized, upon leaping aboard the
aircraft, his captors had shown a strong desire to throw him off the
ship. The commander's opportune arrival had undoubtedly saved him.
And here they were feeding him, and treating him very nicely indeed! It
puzzled Tom, if it did not actually breed suspicion in his mind.
"But then you can't trust these Huns," he told himself. "Maybe that chap
is out there now waiting to shoot me if I try to slip out of this little
office."
He was not contented to let this question remain in the air. Tom was of
that type of young American who dares. He was ready to take a chance.
Besides, he had in his heart that desire, already set forth, to do
something to halt the Zeppelin raid over London. And he was serious in
this belief that it was possible for him to do something for the Allied
cause in memory of the brave American ace who had been killed almost at
his side.
When he had finished the meal he glanced forward through the narrow
window. At the moment there was nobody in sight on the forward deck. Tom
slid along the couch to the door. He put a tentative hand on the knob.