Transcriber’s Notes:

Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_).

Additional Transcriber’s Notes are at the end.

       *       *       *       *       *

The Airship Boys in the Great War OR The Rescue of Bob Russell

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: _The “Ocean Flyer” Surrounded by Zeppelins._]

       *       *       *       *       *




The Airship Boys In the Great War


  or, The Rescue of Bob Russell

  BY DE LYSLE F. CASS

  [Illustration]

  Illustrated by Harry O. Kennedy

  The Reilly & Britton Co.
  Chicago

       *       *       *       *       *

Copyright, 1915 by The Reilly & Britton Co.

THE AIRSHIP BOYS IN THE GREAT WAR




CONTENTS


  CHAPTER                                         PAGE

       I WHAT THE NEWSPAPER TOLD                     9

      II IN THE OFFICES OF THE NEW YORK _Herald_    17

     III SOMEONE TRIES TO BUY THE “FLYER”           27

      IV GETTING THE “FLYER” READY                  33

       V BUCK STEWART--AND A WARNING                46

      VI ESCAPING FROM DEADLY SHADOWS               54

     VII WHAT HAPPENED TO NED                       62

    VIII SIX MILES UP IN THE AIR                    70

      IX PARIS PROVES UNFRIENDLY                    78

       X AN ADVENTURE IN THE ARDENNES               86

      XI THE FIGHT IN THE FOREST                    95

     XII BUCK TAKES HIS LIFE IN HIS HANDS          100

    XIII “TO BE SHOT AT SUNRISE”                   107

     XIV THE RESCUE                                115

      XV IN DEADLY PERIL                           124

     XVI NED SAVES THE “FLYER’S” CREW              129

    XVII BOB RUSSELL’S STORY                       134

   XVIII HOW BOB WAS CAPTURED AS A SPY             142

     XIX A STRANGE COUNTRY                         149

      XX A FIGHT WITH WILD COSSACKS IN POLAND      157

     XXI INSIDE OF BESIEGED PRZEMYSL               165

    XXII THE BOYS PERFORM AN ACT OF MERCY          173

   XXIII STRANGE SIGHTS IN VIENNA                  182

    XXIV ON THE TRAIL OF THE CONSPIRATORS          191

     XXV THE BOYS GET WORRIED OVER NED             199

    XXVI AN ATTEMPT TO ASSASSINATE THE EMPEROR     209

   XXVII THE MAN IN THE CLOAK SURPRISES EVERYBODY  216

  XXVIII SURROUNDED BY GERMAN ZEPPELINS            225

    XXIX THE BATTLE ABOVE THE CLOUDS               230

     XXX THE MOST TERRIBLE ACCIDENT OF ALL         236

    XXXI THE END OF THE “OCEAN FLYER”              244




LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS


  The “Ocean Flyer” Surrounded by Zeppelins  _Frontispiece_

  A Narrow Escape                                 _Page_ 60

  The Rescue of Bob Russell                      _Page_ 118

  The Mysterious Man in the Cloak                _Page_ 220

       *       *       *       *       *

The Airship Boys in the Great War




CHAPTER I WHAT THE NEWSPAPER TOLD


“Great Guns!” exclaimed Alan Hope, bending down over the newspaper
which he had spread out upon the table in front of him.

Ned Napier, who was deep in a pile of blue prints on his desk, glanced
over at his chum.

“Great guns exactly describes it, if you’re reading those accounts of
the war in Europe,” said he with a grin, “or maybe you’d better say the
great-_est_ guns, because that’s what they are using over there just
now. But then, we shouldn’t worry as long as they aren’t shooting up
the good old Stars and Stripes.”

“That’s just it, Ned; we _should_ worry,” answered Alan, his face
puckered into unaccustomed wrinkles, and his eyes still swiftly
scanning the pages of the newspaper before him. “We ought to worry
about this piece of news, because it concerns a mighty good friend of
ours.”

“Who! How’s that? Where is it?” cried Ned, swinging around in his
swivel chair so as to face the other boy. Seeing that Alan was still
staring as if bewildered at the paper, he arose and hurried over to the
table. Leaning down over Alan’s shoulder, he at first could only see
flaring headlines of three and four-inch black-faced type.

As Ned’s eye roved down the outspread sheet, however, it finally was
caught by a smaller sub-head, sandwiched in between reports on the
latest scandal on the Subway Investigation and alleged atrocities in
Belgium. He gave a gasp of mingled astonishment and consternation as he
read the following:

“AMERICAN WAR CORRESPONDENT IN PRISON

“Will Be Tried as a Spy!

  “Associated Press Syndicate, Muhlbruck, via Brussels, November
  13, (Delayed by censor).--Robert Russell, said to be an American
  newspaper man, has been arrested here and put under guard, pending
  trial as a spy by Gen. Haberkampf, commanding the division of the
  West Battalion. The Germans are taking every precaution to safeguard
  the secrecy of their maneuvers, and this arrest is said to be only
  one of their determined efforts to discourage the presence of alien
  war correspondents. Russell is in grave danger of being shot unless
  he can satisfactorily explain certain papers found upon his person at
  the time of his arrest.”

No wonder that both Ned and Alan turned pale and looked at each other
in a dazed, stupefied sort of way. Bob Russell was one of their oldest
and dearest comrades, a lad only slightly older than themselves, who
had gone through innumerable adventures with them. He had so often
accompanied them in sensational exploits, that his name was often
linked with theirs: The “Airship Boys.” He had accompanied them on
the famous twelve-hour flight of the _Ocean Flyer_ from London to New
York; he had braved death with them in Mexico when the Airship Boys put
a stop to the smuggling of Chinamen into this country; he had proved
himself an intrepid comrade when they had dared wild Indian tribes in
Navajo land in search of the hidden Aztec temple; he had risked death
with them on their dash for the North Pole.

The Airship Boys and their adventures have been written up in
newspapers and books and Bob Russell was no small factor in the success
of his friends.

Bob Russell! As tried and true a comrade as ever a boy had--always
cheerful, full of expedients, and “game” to the core. They could hardly
realize that it was he who was now threatened by such frightful death,
without a single friend near to aid him.

“Poor Bob!” exclaimed Alan, and was not at all ashamed of the
unaccustomed lump that crowded further speech from his throat. “Poor
Bob!” he repeated.

Ned had dropped his face into his hands and with closed eyes mentally
pictured the crowded, ill-smelling prison where Bob sat unshaven and
forlorn, surrounded by other wounded and miserable beings who felt no
sympathy for him nor even spoke his language--who only shrank with
wide, scared eyes from the suspicious glare of the armed Germans on
guard. Maybe Bob was thinking of him too just then, wondering what the
Airship Boys were doing, picturing them skimming luxuriously out over
the sun-kissed ocean in careless forgetfulness of him, their devoted
comrade of past days.

Alan interrupted Ned’s mournful imaginings again.

“Just think,” he cried, “of all the terrible barbarities which the
newspapers say that the Germans have inflicted upon their captives.
Think, they may perpetrate some similar awful atrocity upon poor old
Bob!”

Ned shook his head impatiently.

“No, I don’t believe they would do anything like that,” said he.
“Two-thirds of these torture and massacre stories we read about are
hysterical exaggerations, prompted either by their enemies or newspaper
writers with a lively imagination. The Germans are a kindly, civilized
people, just as the English or French, and certainly more so than the
Russians. If they shoot Bob it will be because they honestly believe
him to be a spy.”

“But they mustn’t shoot him! It must be stopped some way!”

“Yes, but how? If all of the influence that Uncle Sam can exert won’t
protect him, what can?”

“_We_ can, Ned. There is no time to wait for diplomatic negotiations,
which may accomplish nothing anyway. Remember that this newspaper says
that certain incriminating papers have been found on Bob’s person. If
he is to be saved it must be done immediately and by us two alone. We
can take the _Ocean Flyer_ and reach Belgium in twenty or twenty-one
hours, just as easily as we made that trip from New York to London in
eighteen hours last year.”

“I admit that we can get there soon enough,” answered Ned, “but what
about the third man whom we’ll need to help us manage the airship?”

“Why not ‘Buck’ Stewart, who went with us on the _Flyer’s_ trip to
London? We know that he is absolutely dependable, and is familiar with
the workings of the ship besides. Then, too, the _Herald_ will be more
than glad of the chance to send one of its reporters with us to see the
war at close range.”

Alan’s intense enthusiasm began to communicate itself to the
slower-thinking, more practical Ned, but he was not ready to act
without mature consideration of all the difficulties involved which
might make a failure of their attempt.

“I don’t want you to think me lukewarm about doing anything in our
power to save Bob,” said he, “but we’ve got to look carefully at
all sides of this thing. Don’t you realize that the United States
government wouldn’t sanction any high-handed breaking of neutrality
laws that might drag it into the war, just because an American citizen
was held captive?”

“Then let’s go without the government’s permission! Who is there to
stop us? We can get enough credentials from Mr. Latimer, managing
editor of the _Herald_, to tide us over small passport difficulties,
and further than those we certainly can depend upon ourselves. We won’t
have to flaunt the Stars and Stripes under the nose of every foreigner
we happen to meet over there anyway. Remember what Senator Bascom said
in his speech on the Mexican war: ‘If the life of a single United
States citizen is at stake, it is worth all of the millions of mere
money that international war may cost us.’ We can’t desert good old Bob
in an emergency like this, can we?”

“No!” shouted Ned, jumping to his feet and banging his fists on the
desk in front of him. “You’re right, Alan. We’re going to show those
chaps over there that it’s not such ‘a long, long way to Tipperary,’
after all, providing one can travel in the Airship Boys’ _Ocean Flyer_
at the rate of two hundred miles an hour. Get on your hat and overcoat,
Alan! We’re going over to the _Herald_ office right now to see what
the editor of the _Herald_ will do for us.”

“Hip, hip, hurrah!” shouted Alan, and grabbing Ned’s out-stretched
hands they did a truly boyish war-dance around the sober, stately
offices of the Universal Transportation Company, of which they were the
heads.




CHAPTER II IN THE OFFICES OF THE NEW YORK HERALD


The managing editor of the New York _Herald_ received the engraved
visiting cards of Alan Hope and Ned Napier with mingled pleasure and
surprise.

“The Airship Boys! Send them right in,” said he to the young woman who
had announced them from the outer office. Then the great newspaper man
turned with an apologetic smile to the gentleman who still stood, hat
in hand, beside his desk, as he had been about to leave just before the
boys’ cards were brought in.

“Please excuse me, Mr. Geisthorn, for seeming to hurry you away in this
manner, but I believe our little interview was about terminated anyway.”

“Yes, it is so,” replied the other, speaking with a strong German
accent. “It is not for me yet to take too much of your precious time.
As I have before said, I am myself a journalist, and know the value of
even a minute’s time.”

The editor of the _Herald_ arose to shake hands in parting with his
visitor. At the door the latter turned, hesitated momentarily, and then
said:

“My excuses again, mein herr, but what was it that you called these
gentlemen? The Aeroplane Children? What is that?”

The managing editor permitted a smile to edge his lips as he turned and
pointed to a framed front page of the _Herald_, dated over two years
ago. It was double headlined in heavy, black-letter type, and profusely
illustrated with photographs of the coronation of King George V of
England.

“I called them the Airship Boys,” said the editor. “That is a title
they have won as a result of their astounding feats and innovations in
aerial navigation. The page of the _Herald_ which you see there on the
wall represents a bit of newspaper history as well as the beginning of
a new epoch in aeronautics. Those two young men, Ned Napier and Alan
Hope, two years ago last June accomplished a flight from London to
New York in twelve hours, bringing back with them photographs of the
coronation ceremonies, and enabling us to publish them nearly a week
earlier than any other American newspaper.”

“London to New York in _twelve hours_! Impossible!” ejaculated the
visitor, gaping at the picture.

“I don’t wonder at your surprise,” responded the managing editor, “but
that’s exactly what they accomplished in their _Ocean Flyer_--the
largest and highest-powered aircraft ever devised--a vessel capable
of carrying six or seven passengers at a consistent velocity of two
hundred miles and more per hour; an airship which can be easily
operated at a height of eight or ten miles, where the driver of any
other machine would either freeze to death or die from lack of oxygen.”

“You are not what you call making funnies of me?” queried the astounded
visitor, blinking at the editor fixedly through narrowed eyelids, as if
to read his inmost thought. “All this that you tell me is true then?”

“Sir!” said the managing editor with a touch of temper.

“Pardon, mein herr; I do not mean to offend, but--”

“Mr. Napier and Mr. Hope,” announced the private secretary from the
doorway.

Ned and Alan appeared, hat in hand, and were cordially greeted by
their newspaper friend. As they entered the room, the earlier visitor
brushed past them on his way out, staring almost rudely in each boy’s
face as he passed.

“Well,” said Alan, when the door clicked shut behind the man, “I hope
whoever that is will know us the next time he sees us.”

The managing editor laughed as he waved his guests to seats and offered
them cigars, which both boys refused with thanks.

“You’ll have to excuse Mr. Geisthorn, boys,” said he. “He is a newly
appointed local correspondent for the _Tageblatt_, and I nearly floored
him with an account of that London-to-New York flight of yours.”

“Oh, he was a German then,” said Ned, exchanging a significant glance
with Alan.

“Why, yes, and seems to be a very nice fellow from what little I know
of him. He arrived in this country only shortly after the war broke
out and seems quiet and inoffensive,--never gets excited over the
war news nor yells Bloody Murder when the ‘Vaterland’ is mentioned.
He calls here every now and then to give me interesting bits of news
which filter through to him but are cut out of the _Herald’s_ regular
Berlin cable service by the censor. Ever since our Mr. Russell got into
difficulties over there we haven’t been able to get anything like the
exclusive copy we used to.”

“That’s just what we’re here to see you about, sir,” Ned remarked. “We
read in this morning’s papers how Bob has been imprisoned as a spy and
is liable to be shot at any minute. President Wilson naturally doesn’t
want to embroil the United States unnecessarily in the war, and Bob may
be backed up against a wall with the firing squad aiming at him before
this ‘watchful waiting’ policy evolves any means of interceding in his
behalf. Something must be done to help him right away.”

The lines of care around the great journalist’s mouth deepened with
melancholy as he nodded.

“The _Herald_ has of course registered a formal protest. We can do no
more,” he said. “The life of a single individual doesn’t seem such a
very big thing to war-crazed men who are blinded with cannon smoke and
have been literally wading through human blood for three months past.
We can get no satisfactory answer of any sort from the German field
headquarters. The most that they will promise is that the affair will
be investigated and rigid justice meted out.”

“But, hang it all--” broke in Alan, only to be silenced by the calmer,
more practical Ned. Pulling his chair closer to the editor’s desk and
lowering his voice, he explained:

“Alan and I feel that for Bob’s sake we can’t afford to take chances on
any such vague promises as have been given you. We propose to rescue
him ourselves and without a moment’s unnecessary delay.”

“But how can--”

“Sh! In this case we must be careful that we aren’t overheard. There
might be some German sympathizer about who would send word of our
plans, or, on the other hand, even the federal government agents would
interfere if they got wind of our scheme.”

“You are right,” answered the managing editor.

He pressed the electric button on the side of his desk, summoning the
young lady secretary from the outer office.

“Miss Bloomfield, is there anyone out there waiting to see me?”

“No, sir.”

“Good! Kindly contrive to knock the big dictionary off your desk the
moment anyone comes in, so that I may be warned of any visitors without
their knowing it. That is all.” She closed the door.

“Now, boys.”

Ned resumed his explanation.

“The _Ocean Flyer_ is still there in the hangar of the Newark plant of
the Universal Transportation Company. Neither Mr. Osborne, president
of the company, nor Major Honeywell, the secretary, have any financial
interest in the airship. It belongs absolutely to Alan and me, and
we intend to use it immediately for the trip to Muhlbruck, where we
understand that Bob is awaiting trial.

“The _Flyer_ is in the best of condition and almost ready for use
at any moment. All that we need to do is to equip her with a few
mechanical supplies, food, firearms, and so on. We can make the trip
in less than twenty hours. To-day is Tuesday. If all goes well, we can
have Bob back here ready to go out on a city assignment for you by next
Monday.”

Wrinkles of deep thought lined the great newspaper man’s forehead as he
listened attentively to the brief outline of the Airship Boys’ plan. He
would have met such statements from any other boys not yet twenty-one
years old with absolute ridicule, but he knew that, despite their
youth, Ned Napier and Alan Hope were fully capable of carrying out
their scheme.

“One thing more, though, boys,” said he, after a short period of
silence. “Just how are you going to get Mr. Russell out of prison
after you arrive in Muhlbruck? You won’t be able to overpower a whole
German garrison, you know. Then, too, the chances are that when they
see an airship of such unusual design as yours floating down upon them,
they’ll recognize it as being of foreign construction and fire upon
you.”

Alan answered him:

“We haven’t had time to plan that far ahead yet; we’re going to let
that part of it take care of itself. We’ll have to be governed by
circumstances after we get there anyway.”

“And in regard to their firing upon us as a hostile airship,”
supplemented Ned. “I think the chances are that they may take us for
one of their new types of dirigibles that Count Zeppelin is said to
have almost ready for a big aerial raid upon England.”

The editor smiled a bit sadly at their shining eyes and enthusiastic
faces. Then he shook his head.

“I don’t believe that even a German private could mistake the unusual
build of the _Ocean Flyer_ for the bologna-shaped gas bag of a
Zeppelin,” said he. “Still, you are very brave boys, and I want to
compliment you sincerely upon your pluck in attempting this thing. All
luck go with you. Now, what is it that you came here to have me do in
your behalf?”

“Just this,” said Ned. “We would like to have you furnish us with full
credentials as war-correspondents for the New York _Herald_ to protect
us from petty annoyances in case we should, for some unforeseen reason,
have to abandon the _Flyer_ and make our escape on foot. We promise you
that the passports will not be used in any way that might implicate
the paper in a breach of neutrality courtesies, and, anyway, we’re not
going to do any actual fighting if we can help it.

“Also, we would like to have a personal letter to General Haberkampf,
the German commandant at Muhlbruck, explaining that Bob Russell is an
authorized and fully-accredited representative of the _Herald_, and
the last person in the world to be concerned in secret service for the
Allies.”

“Certainly you shall have all that you ask for,” cried the managing
editor. “And here’s hoping that you make that bigoted old General
Haberkampf come to his knees with--”

_Crash!_

Further utterance froze on the editor’s lips and both boys sprang
startled to their feet. Miss Bloomfield’s big dictionary had fallen to
the floor with a bang in the outer office!

The editor strode to the private door just as it was pushed open by
none other than Mr. Geisthorn, the new correspondent for the _Berliner
Tageblatt_. Miss Bloomfield’s face showed angrily over his shoulder.

For a breathless moment all four of those in the private office stared
quizzically at each other. The German was the first to recover his
composure.

“Excuse, gentlemen,” said he, bowing low to each in turn, “I did not
mean to interrupt, but did I not leave my gloves there on the desk?”

“I think not, sir,” replied the editor gravely. “Come in. You do not
interrupt us. My conference with these gentlemen is already concluded.
Mr. Napier, Mr. Hope, good day. I shall send you by boy this afternoon
the copies from our files about which you inquired. Good-bye!”

As the Airship Boys passed out of the office, Mr. Geisthorn again bent
upon them his peculiarly disconcerting stare. They remarked that his
pale blue eyes were as hard and cold as steel.




CHAPTER III SOMEONE TRIES TO BUY THE “FLYER”


“Well, young men, I’ve good news--truly surprising news for you,”
said Major Baldwin Honeywell, as he shook hands with Ned and Alan
the next morning when they returned to the offices of the Universal
Transportation Company.

“We hope that you’re right, Major,” answered Ned. “What is the good
news?”

“First let me ask you a question. How much did it cost you to build the
_Ocean Flyer_ and at what figure do you estimate the time you spent
upon it, the only model of its kind yet completed? Your mechanism,
parts, et cetera, are, of course, fully protected by international
patents. The question is simply: For how much will you sell the _Ocean
Flyer_ just as she stands there in our Newark factory?”

“The machine itself cost us about twenty-five thousand dollars, Major.
I should say that the market value of the craft itself, allowing
compensation for our time and the fact that the airship is absolutely
unique, ought to make it worth at least a hundred and fifty or two
hundred thousand dollars.”

Major Honeywell was rubbing his hands delightedly.

“Fine, fine! I knew that you would estimate it at about that amount.
Boys, what do you say to a prospective purchaser who is willing to pay
three hundred thousand dollars spot cash for this single model, leaving
the company full patent and all further construction rights?”

“But the machine isn’t for sale at any price,” said Alan quietly. “We
intend to use it ourselves immediately, and until we are finished with
it, no consideration would tempt us to sell.”

“But, Alan--boys!--think of the sum you are offered: twelve times the
actual cost, if the new owners are given immediate possession, and
providing you agree not to dispose of another similar machine within a
period of one year. You can build another airship just like the _Flyer_
within two or three months at the longest, and you are at liberty to
use it yourselves as you may please. To what immediate use can you
put the vessel that will in any way compensate for the loss of three
hundred thousand dollars in cold cash?”

“Major,” said Alan, “we are deeply grateful for your interest in the
matter, but we feel that we can’t look at it as a mere matter of
dollars and cents just now. Something a great deal more valuable to us
is at stake--the life of Bob Russell, whom you know.”

Then Alan went on to tell Major Honeywell all about Bob’s predicament
and how they proposed to save him. The old gentleman’s face grew more
and more grave as he listened, and several times he shook his head
disapprovingly.

“But, my dear boys,” he exclaimed, after Alan had concluded outlining
their plans, “have you sufficiently considered the terrible dangers
that you incur by this rash procedure? Quite aside from the momentary
probability of aerial mishap, you must realize that the Germans would
shoot you without scruple under the circumstances. Moreover, the entire
United States government would be powerless to help you if once you
were caught in a breach of neutrality laws, as your act certainly would
be construed.”

“Thank you kindly for the well-meant word of caution, Major,” answered
Alan, “but there is nothing you could say which would make us give up
this chance of saving poor Bob’s life.”

“Then, if that is the case, here is my hand, boys, and my heartiest
well wishes go with you. While I cannot conscientiously endorse so
dangerous a proceeding, I still can admire the pluck which prompts it.”

Both boys flushed under their kindly old friend’s praise, and Ned, who
up to this time had played the part of a listener, said:

“Just who were these prospective purchasers of the _Ocean Flyer_? Why
did they insist on taking immediate possession of it, and why the
stipulation that we were to sell no other similar airship to anyone
else within one year’s time?”

Major Honeywell shook his head.

“I am as much in the dark in that regard as you are, Ned. Just before
you arrived this morning, I was visited by a Mr. Phillips, whose
business it is to act as go-between and buyer for concerns which do not
wish their own names to appear in a transaction. Mr. Phillips would not
state for whom he was acting or for what purpose the _Flyer_ was to
be used, but said that he was authorized to pay spot cash for it. He
seemed to be very much excited and anxious to close the deal at once.”

“Do you suppose that he could be representing one of the belligerent
countries in Europe and wanted the _Flyer_ for war?” asked Ned.

This was a new thought to Alan, who slapped his knee, exclaiming:

“I’ll bet that’s the whole secret. The war departments over there are
all wild over this armored aeroplane idea anyway. England probably
wants the _Flyer_ to protect her from air invasion by Germany.”

“Or France wants it to use in dropping bombs along the western battle
front in Belgium,” said Major Honeywell.

“Or maybe Germany wants it to supplement their rumored fleet of
Zeppelins for the long-planned raid on England,” added Ned.

All three could not help but laugh heartily at the diversity of
opinions thus expressed. In the midst of their merriment the telephone
on Major Honeywell’s desk began suddenly to ring insistently.

“Hello,” called the Major, with the receiver to his ear. “Yes, yes.
This is the offices of the Universal Transportation Company, Major
Baldwin Honeywell, the treasurer, talking.... What?... Speak a little
louder and more slowly, please; I can hardly understand you.... Yes....
Mr. Phillips approached me about the sale of the _Ocean Flyer_ this
morning.... Oh! you are speaking for him. I see.... No, we have
decided not to sell the airship.... No, _not_ to sell it.... No, no,
the price was quite gratifying, but the _Flyer_ is not for sale....
Positively, sir!... You are wishing to give twenty-five thousand
dollars more?... Hold the wire.”

Major Honeywell rolled a wild eye at the intently listening boys. Both
shook their heads emphatically. The Major turned again to the telephone.

“I’m sorry, sir, but our decision is not to sell the _Flyer_ at any
price whatever.... No, I am sure that we shall not change our minds
about it.... All right. To whom have I been speaking, please?”

As the Major asked this final question, Ned sprang to an adjacent
extension of the telephone. He caught the distant guttural rumble of a
heavy voice:

“My name, it is of no matter since you have not the airship for sale.
Good-bye.”

The words were spoken with a marked German accent that in some way
seemed peculiarly familiar to Ned. He had heard that voice before, and
recently too. But where?




CHAPTER IV GETTING THE “OCEAN FLYER” READY


The rest of that day was a very busy one for the Airship Boys, even
though Major Honeywell himself lent as much assistance as he could.
There was a variety of miscellaneous supplies to be purchased, hurried
letters to be written to Ned’s parents in Chicago and to Alan’s sister,
Mary. Both boys agreed that it was best not to state the destination or
object of their trip for fear that their beloved ones might suffer all
sorts of anxieties until their safe return. So they wrote briefly that
they were going off upon a little three or four days’ business trip in
the _Ocean Flyer_ and that it was the urgency of the business in hand
that prevented their making the farewell visit they desired.

Their shopping for necessary supplies did not take the boys long, for
they could estimate pretty closely what they would need. On account of
the extremely high altitudes at which they would fly it was necessary
for them to buy especially heavy underwear, felt boots, wool jackets,
fleece-lined fingered mittens and heavy caps for four persons--as
Alan said: “The fourth outfit for Bob Russell, so that he won’t freeze
coming back with us.”

Then there were food supplies (the _Flyer_ was equipped with a regular
cook’s galley) to be bought, a dozen hair-trigger automatic revolvers,
half a dozen light-weight repeating rifles of the latest pattern,
cartridge belts, rounds of ammunition, and a large American flag.
Neither the firearms nor the flag were to be used except in case of
absolute necessity.

Major Honeywell got the aeroplane works in Newark, where the _Ocean
Flyer_ was being kept in storage, on the telephone, and issued
instructions to the manager there to run the big aircraft out of the
hangar into the inclosed experimental field ready for inspection, and
to lay in fresh supplies of the special grades of gasoline and ether
needed for power.

All incidental shopping completed, Major Honeywell placed his big
automobile at the disposal of Ned and Alan, and the trip between
Greater New York and Newark was accomplished at a rate that turned the
speedometer needle halfway around its circumference and raised angry
protests from every traffic policeman as the car whizzed by. This was
not, of course, a wise thing to do, but the Major’s chauffeur was an
especially good driver and the boys felt justified by the exceptional
matter in hand.

An unusual stir was apparent inside the field of the aeroplane works as
the Major’s automobile raced up to the high brick wall which insured
privacy for the grounds. At the far end of the ground stretched the
squatty brick buildings of the factory, with a wireless station and
various other signaling devices on the parapeted roof. Extending out
from the yard front and ending at the edge of the big experimental
field, was the “setting-up room,” a drop of heavy canvas roofing,
supported every hundred feet by rough, unpainted posts. Under this
tent-like structure was to be seen almost every size and variety
of flying craft made in America, to say nothing of several flying
machines of obviously foreign design. Most of these were covered by
heavy tarpaulins to protect them while not in use. A whole corps of
mechanicians was just then pushing out into the aviation field another
and very different type of flyer, the heroic proportions of which
dwarfed all the other machines into insignificance.

The eyes of the Airship Boys lighted up.

“There she goes!” they cried in unison. “They are getting her all ready
for us.”

They jumped out of the automobile and hurried across the field to where
the peerless wonder of the world’s aircraft stood, a literal monument
to their inventive genius.

The _Ocean Flyer_ has been too fully commented upon and described in
scientific journals, magazines and newspapers from coast to coast to
require any very detailed account of it in this story.

Overlapping, dull glinting plates of the recently-discovered metal
magnalium covered the entire body of the vessel like the scales of a
fish. The planes and truss were likewise formed of this substance,
which is a magnesium alloy with copper and standard vanadium, or chrome
steel. The extreme lightness of magnalium, combined with a toughness
found in no other metal or alloy, made possible the perfection of this
largest of all airships.

The vessel was modeled after the general form of a sea gull, with
wings outspread in full flight, its peculiarly ingenious construction
insuring not only the maximum of speed, but also that hitherto elusive
automatic stability of the planes which for years past has been the
despair of aeroplane builders on both sides of the “big pond.”

Braces extending from the bottom of the car body and metal cables from
the top partly supported the vast expanse of magnalium steel sheets,
but toward the outer ends, the wings, or planes, extended unsupported
in apparent defiance of all mechanical laws. Three sets of “tandem”
planes projected with slight dihedral angles for a distance decreasing
from eighty, to sixty, to forty feet, on each side of the ship body,
affording a wing-spread never before successfully attained, and giving
the whole the exact resemblance of a gigantic metal bird.

Each of these planes was made of three distinct telescoping fore and
aft sections, with a full spread of twenty-one feet. By means of the
immense pressure gauges almost concealed under the curved front of the
main plane, the rear sections were drawn in by cables on a spring drum
until the width of each of the three planes was reduced to seven feet.
The moment the air pressure was lessened by descent or lessening of
speed, the narrow wing surfaces automatically spread. In rapid flight
the reverse pressure on the gauges allowed the spring drums to reel in
the extension surfaces, housing all extensions securely, either beneath
or over the main section of the wings. In this way the buoyancy of the
airship remained always the same.

The body of the _Ocean Flyer_ consisted of two decks or stories, with a
pilot house, staterooms, fuel chambers, engineroom, bridges above and
protective galleries. The completely enclosed hull, pierced with heavy,
glass-protected ports, and doors, was twelve feet wide, thirteen feet
high and thirty feet long, ending in a maze of metal trusswork at the
rear, and a magnalium-braced tail, seventy-three feet more in length,
exclusive of the twenty-foot rudder at the stern.

To drive this huge craft, a much higher percentage of motor power than
ever before secured had to be transformed into propulsive energy. The
ordinary aeroplane propeller permits the escape of much of the motive
power, but the _Ocean Flyer_ was equipped with the new French “moon”
devices, which do away with the “slip,” and allow the full power of the
engine to be applied to the greatest advantage. Viewed sidewise, this
new form of propeller looks exactly like a crescent, its tips curving
ahead of its shaft attachment. The massive eleven-foot propellers of
the _Ocean Flyer_, with a section five feet broad at the center, gave
ample “push.” They were located just forward of and beneath the front
edge of the long planes. Powerful magnalium chain drives connected
these with the shaft inside the hull. Behind the chain drives, a light
metal runway extended twelve feet from the car to the propeller
bearings, so that the latter might be reached while the car was in
transit, should adjustment or oiling be found necessary.

Within the hull of the vessel, four feet from the bottom, a shaft
extended carrying a third or auxiliary “moon” propeller, differing from
the exterior side propellers by being seven instead of eleven feet in
length. This reserve propelling force was for use in case either of the
other propellers became disabled.

The motive force of the _Flyer_ was secured by a chemical engine,
run by dehydrated sulphuric ether and gasoline. Magnalium cylinders
sustained the shock of the tremendous “explosions” as the cylinders
revolved past the exploding chamber and developed a power previously
undreamed of.

Each of the two huge engines used was six feet in diameter, with
four explosion chambers cooled by fans which fed liquid ammonia to
the cylinder walls in a spray and then furnished power for its
re-liquefaction. In form, each engine resembled a great wheel, or
turbine, on the rim of which appeared a series of conical cylinder
pockets. These, when presented to the explosion chambers, received
the impact of the explosion, and then, running through an expanding
groove, allowed the charge to continue expanding and applying power
until the groove terminated in an open slot which instantly cleansed
the cylinders of the burnt gases. By this arrangement there was
only a twentieth part of the engine wheel where no power was being
simultaneously imparted, thus giving practically a continuous torque.

Weighing over five hundred pounds each, and with a velocity of one
thousand five hundred revolutions per minute, those big turbines
generated nine hundred and seventy-three horse power, natural brake
test, and this could be raised to more than a thousand horse power
without danger. Revolving in opposite directions, they eliminated all
dangerous gyroscopic action. As has been said, power was applied to the
propellers by special magnalium gearing.

The _Ocean Flyer_ was equipped with the first enclosed car or cabin
ever used on an aeroplane. The compartments of its two decks connected
with each other, but all could be made one air-tight whole. Even the
engines were within an air-tight compartment. Attached to the bow of
the hull was a large metal funnel with a wide flange. Tubes leading
from the small end of this passed into each room on the vessel. Flying
at sixty miles or more an hour caused the air to rush into this funnel
with such force as soon to fill any or all of the compartments with
compressed air. At a speed of two hundred miles per hour, this was
likely to be so great that, instead of having too little air, there
would be far too much were it not for regulating pressure gauges which
shut off the flow from time to time. Thus the aeronauts were not only
assured plenty of breathing air even in the highest altitudes, but the
pressure gave sufficient heat to prevent frost bite from the intense
cold which prevails beyond a certain height above the earth’s surface.

A supply of oxygen was of course carried for use in case of necessity,
although the Airship Boys had in the past proved that their funnel
device obviated all need of it.

The pilot room was located at the bow on the second deck. In appearance
it largely resembled the wheel-house of the ordinary ocean liner. The
compass box, with its compensating magnetic mechanism beneath, stood
just in front of the steering wheel, below and parallel with which,
but not connected with it, was a wheel for elevating or depressing the
planes. Both of these wheels operated indirectly, utilizing compressed
air cylinders to move the big rudder and wing surfaces. At the right of
these wheels was the engine control, consisting of a series of starting
and stopping levers for each engine and the gear clutch for each wheel.

At the left, in compact, semicircular form, was the signal-board,
the automatic indicator recording at all times the position of each
plane, the set of the rudder and the speed of the engines. Below this
was the chronometer and a speaking tube which kept the pilot always
in communication with every other part of the vessel. Immediately
behind the pilot’s wheel was a seeming confusion of indicators and
gauges for the making of observations. There was the aerometer,
the automatic barograph, the checking barometer, the equilibrium
statoscope, a self-recording thermometer, the compressed air gauge for
all compartments, chart racks, indicators to show the exact rate of
consumption of fuel and lubricating oil and so on.

As may be surmised, the duties of the pilot were not merely to steer
and keep a lookout ahead, but also to watch the machine and counteract
the influence of unexpected air currents and those atmospheric
obstructions like “pockets,” indistinguishable puffs of air, and the
like, which are always very dangerous and will jolt an airship exactly
as a rock or piece of wood will bounce an automobile into the air
and maybe completely overturn it. Among experienced aeronauts, these
air-ruts are recognized as being one of the chief perils in aviation.

Ned Napier and Alan Hope usually took turns acting as pilot on a
three-hour shift, any longer interval of duty being too nerve-racking
a strain. The third man whom they usually took with them on the _Ocean
Flyer_ was supposed to be stationed in the engine room. It was his
duty to watch the automatic fuel and lubricator supply feed pipes, the
compressed air gauges and pipe valves, the signal and illuminating
light motor, the oxygen tanks and the plane valves, in addition to the
wireless apparatus for communication with the outside world.

On long flights one of the three aviators slept while the others
remained on duty. Thus one of them was always kept fresh and alert to
meet the demands of any unforeseen emergency.

Ned, Alan and Major Honeywell made a careful investigation of every
detail of the _Ocean Flyer_, satisfying themselves that it was in all
respects perfect for their hazardous trip. They found everything to be
absolutely shipshape, and those additional supplies which had arrived,
were already being stowed away on board.

“Well,” said Alan, “everything seems to be attended to properly, and
there is no reason why we can’t start any time we like. The sooner the
better, because there’s no telling what they may be going to do to Bob
over there in Belgium any one of these days.”

“Right,” echoed Ned. “Let’s see. To-day is Wednesday. What do you
say to starting off to-morrow morning early. Then we can arrive in
Muhlbruck not later than some time early Friday morning. We will have
darkness to cover our arrival there.”

“That’s a good idea,” supplemented Major Honeywell. “I don’t like to
see you boys risking this thing, but if it must be done you should
take every possible advantage. And now, if you’re through inspecting
the _Flyer_, what do you say to riding back to New York with me in the
automobile and taking dinner at my house?”

“The major is a man after my own heart,” cried Ned.

“My stomach cries out for him,” grinned Alan, as they made their way
back to the waiting motor car.




CHAPTER V BUCK STEWART--AND A WARNING


It was not a particularly jolly meal at Major Honeywell’s that
night. The major was oppressed by grave fears of what might happen
to his young friends on their journey, and the Airship Boys felt the
seriousness of the step they were about to take. However, youthful
spirits are buoyant, and the good-smelling, appetizing dishes that were
served them soon drove away dull gloom and revived the boys’ spirits.
As Alan said:

“What’s the use of sitting here staring at each other across the table
as if we were at a funeral? Nobody is going to die or even get hurt.
It’s no use trying to be melancholy on a full stomach, and I, for one,
am going to laugh right now.”

The dessert course was just being served when there came a ring at the
doorbell, and a few minutes later the maid announced that a reporter
from the _Herald_ wanted to see either Mr. Napier or Mr. Hope.

“Show the gentleman right in here,” said Major Honeywell, after the
boys had agreed to see him.

The young man who came in was slightly larger and older than either
Ned or Alan. He was tall, wiry, and had the cool, assured bearing of
one who has survived many rebuffs and still got what he wanted. As he
entered the dining room door, both Ned and Alan sprang to their feet
and rushed impulsively to meet him.

“Buck Stewart!” they shouted joyously, pumping his arms up and down.
“Well, if this isn’t both the most unexpected and the luckiest thing!
We’ve been wanting to have a talk with you for two days past, and meant
to ask the managing editor about you Tuesday, only we were interrupted
and got so flustered over it that we left before remembering that you
were one of the main reasons for our call.”

“What good fairy brought you here to-night, Buck?” asked Ned, pulling
the newcomer down into a chair at the table and shoving a piece of pie
in front of him.

“I’d rather eat that pie than talk right now, but I suppose I’ve got
to answer your question first,” said Buck. “We reporters always are in
hard lines. You ask how I happen to be here? Well, it was this way:
The night city editor called me over about an hour ago and gave me an
assignment on you two chaps.”

“Why, what news is there about us that the _Herald_ could use?” asked
Ned, exchanging a rapid glance with Alan and the major.

Buck removed a longing eye from the piece of pie to reply:

“We learned in some way that unknown parties had made you a cash offer
of something like three hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars for
the _Ocean Flyer_ and that you turned them down cold. Is that true?
Also, who were the people who wanted to buy the _Flyer_ at such an
astounding cash figure, and for what purpose did they want it? If
you’ll give me full details I’ll be much obliged.” This as the reporter
pulled a folded bundle of note paper and a pencil from his pocket.
“These prospective buyers didn’t represent any one of the warring
nations in Europe, did they?”

“That’s just what we don’t know and what we feared,” said Alan. “I’m
afraid that we can’t give you much dope for a story, though, Buck,
because we know as little about them as you do.”

Then he went on to tell about Mr. Phillips, the go-between’s
mysterious call, and the telephone conversation with the man with a
strong German accent.

“I’m sure that I’ve heard his voice somewhere before and that not so
very long ago, too,” added Ned. “I’ve racked my brains ever since
trying to place him.”

“Huh, sounds funny,” commented the reporter musingly, “but you
certainly haven’t given me much of a lead for the ‘story’ I was after.
Well, I’ll be going and not interrupt your little party here any
further.”

“Wait a minute, Buck,” said Ned. “We haven’t told you yet why we wanted
to see the _Herald’s_ managing editor about you.”

“That’s so,” said Buck, sitting down more comfortably in his chair.
“Now if one of you gentlemen will hand me a fork, I’ll dispose of this
mince pie while you’re spinning the yarn.”

So, while the reporter was busy making the pie disappear, Ned told him
of Bob Russell’s predicament in Belgium and what they proposed to do
towards a rescue.

“We want you to go with us, Buck,” said he, “just as you did the time
we made the ‘twelve-hour’ London-to-New York flight two years ago with
the coronation pictures for the _Herald_. The managing editor will
surely let you go for the two or three days needful when you ask him,
especially as it will enable the paper to get a representative right at
the front, with no bull-headed censor to edit his ‘copy.’”

“If the boss won’t let me off, I’ll throw up the job anyway,” shouted
Buck, jumping up in great excitement. “Why, Bob Russell and I are old
friends, just as you are, and I don’t want to leave him in the lurch
any more than you do. It’s mighty good of you to give me this chance to
make one of the rescue party. Count on Buck Stewart, boys--hair, tooth
and nail!”

The reporter’s enthusiasm was contagious. All three sprang to their
feet, and, with exclamations of mutual pleasure, were shaking hands to
seal the compact when--

“Ting-a-ling-ling! Ting-a-ling-ling!” went the telephone bell.

“Ned,” called the major, who answered the call, “it’s somebody that
wants to speak with you personally--_a man with a marked German
accent_.”

The little company around the dining table stared curiously at each
other as Ned Napier took up the receiver.

“Hello! This is Mr. Napier.... Yes, I’m one of the owners of the _Ocean
Flyer_. Who is this speaking and what do you want?”

The voice at the other end of the line was harsh and guttural. The
words were spoken in a truly menacing tone:

“You do not need to know who I am. It is sufficient that I warn you. We
who are banded together in this country know this thing that you think
of doing. We know that you intend a trip in your flying ship to the
war zone. Take our advice and do not attempt it. You are being closely
watched and we will not hold ourselves responsible for what may happen
if you try to carry out your plan. You are young and life is dear to
you. Beware!”

The telephone clicked abruptly at the other end of the line and the
threatening voice was still. Ned sat as if petrified, his face a study
of mingled amazement, indecision and indignation.

“What’s the matter, Ned? Who was it? Was it that same person who called
up about the _Flyer_?” cried the others crowding around him.

“Yes,” replied Ned, “it was the same voice and I am sure that I have
heard it before.”

Then he went on to tell them of the ominous threats of the mysterious
stranger. A chorus of exclamations followed his recital.

“The blackguard!” ejaculated Major Honeywell. “We ought to set
detectives on his trail.”

“Small chance of ever catching him that way with the meagre clues we
have,” said reporter Buck. “Besides, we haven’t time to monkey with
anything like that,--unless, of course, you boys decide that it is
better not to risk the enmity of these unknowns. They evidently mean
business.”

Ned’s lips had fixed themselves into a grim, straight line, and Alan’s
frown was no less determined.

“All he hopes to do is to frighten us into selling the airship to him,”
said Alan, “and I don’t believe that his big threats were anything but
sheer bluff. Why, they wouldn’t dare attack us right here in the heart
of civilized New York.”

“Whoever they are, or whatever they may try to do, we’re not going to
let a phone call scare us out of this effort to save Bob Russell,” said
Ned. “We’re all ready to start now except for getting the _Herald’s_
permission to let Buck here go with us. He can see the managing editor
about that the first thing in the morning, and then we’ll be off
immediately.

“But if this gang really has you boys spied upon, they will certainly
make some attempt to stop you,” argued Major Honeywell.

“Nobody stands any chance of stopping us once we get up in the air,”
answered Ned, “but, as you say, we may as well try to make our get-away
as secretly as possible. I would suggest that instead of starting out
by daylight to-morrow, as we planned, that we wait until midnight. Each
of us can leave his house at a different time during the day and go
about as if we have changed our minds and called the trip off. Then,
just in time to reach the Newark factory, each one can start off alone.
We should be able to disarm any suspicion in that way.”

Everybody approved heartily of Ned’s scheme and parted that night
with a little more earnestness in their handshakes than usual. All of
the road back home the Airship Boys cast furtive glances over their
shoulders every now and then, but no sign of any followers was visible.




CHAPTER VI ESCAPING FROM DEADLY SHADOWS


Alan Hope spent most of the next day at the offices of the Universal
Transportation Company, and was inclined to scoff at the idea of his
being watched. Nevertheless he had a loaded automatic revolver tucked
away in his hip pocket, and, as night drew on, his assurance began to
ooze gradually, and he felt more than once to make sure that his weapon
was still there ready for defense.

Ned Napier was really impressed with the threats of the mysterious
German, and, though he did not arm himself as Alan had, he kept a sharp
lookout for suspicious characters about him. All day long he wandered
with an air of affected carelessness through the downtown shopping
district, made a couple of short business calls, ate leisurely at the
Ritz, and seemed to have no thought of anything but home and bed for
that evening.

Buck Stewart arose early that morning, ate a hearty breakfast, and when
he started out took with him what was apparently an ordinary cane, but
which really was a rod of steel, encased in leather. Many reporters
carry them when they are sent out on assignments into dangerous
sections of the city.

Swinging his stick jauntily, he made his way first to the offices of
the _Herald_, where a brief chat with the managing editor readily
procured him permission to accompany the Airship Boys on their trip.
The editor, in fact, made a regular assignment of it and cautioned Buck
to take along with him plenty of pencils, notebooks and a small camera
that could be swung over one shoulder with a strap.

Thus burdened, Buck again sought the street. Leaving “Newspaper Row”
behind, he sauntered along, stopping now and then to look at articles
in the shop windows, and finally decided to see the matinee at the
_Casino_.

Broadway was thronged with the usual afternoon crowd of beautiful
women and fashionably dressed idlers for which it is famous. The
reporter shouldered his way through these, a little self-conscious
of the bumping camera-box over his shoulder and the way his pockets
bulged with surplus notebooks. Once a tall, plainly dressed man with a
close-cropped beard bumped into him. There was a mutual exchange of
apologies and the crowd soon swallowed him. Later on Buck met a fellow
newspaperman in front of the Astor and stopped to chat with him. An
inadvertent side glance during this conversation discovered the same
bearded stranger standing just to one side of the hotel entrance, as
if hesitating whether to go in or not. There was no recognition in his
cold eyes as Buck’s glance caught his, but the reporter’s heart gave a
little jump.

“Pshaw!” growled Buck to himself, “I’m getting to be a regular old
granny! Here I see the same passer-by twice in an afternoon on Broadway
and am afraid that he’s a spy waiting to sandbag me.”

His uneasiness was not thus to be laughed off though, and spoiled his
enjoyment of the performance at the theatre. He scanned the audience
around him narrowly to see if the bearded man was among them, and was
relieved at failing to find him.

After the show Buck again wandered aimlessly through the streets. He
was keenly on the alert for spies, and found merely killing time to be
harder than he had thought it would be. The strain was beginning to
tell on his nerves. At dusk a million lights flashed out in a dazzling
array of figures and designs and the Great White Way made good its
name. But Buck was tired of it by then. He strolled over to near-by
Fifth Avenue, where there were fewer people to jostle him and the
rattle of the streets was less distracting. He felt, for no apparent
reason, increasingly sure that he was being followed.

To make sure of his suspicions Buck walked at times very slowly; at
others rapidly; but he observed no suspicious “shadows.” True, there
were a number of people walking behind him, but his inspection revealed
nothing sinister about them.

Buck told himself that his fears were silly--that he was as bad as a
girl in the dark. Still the vague dread oppressed him.

He ate in a small restaurant just off Fourth Avenue, entering the place
at the same time as two other men whose dress indicated them to be
shop clerks, or something of the kind. When he arose to pay his bill
and leave, they did also. At the counter, one of them brushed as if
accidentally against him, and Buck felt deft fingers pass swiftly over
his pockets as if searching for something. Was the fellow feeling to
see if Buck carried a revolver?

The reporter wondered, but said nothing to the strangers. Their
faces were innocent enough and their eyes met his questioning glance
candidly. Buck went on out into the night and they followed close on
his heels. As he stood quietly in the doorway there, however, the men
bade each other good night and parted--going in opposite directions
along the street. Finally they disappeared in the darkness.

Buck was sorely perplexed. He felt absolutely certain that it was
unsafe for him to be wandering about alone, yet it was several hours
too early to start for Newark. Finally he decided to take in several
moving picture shows as the safest way to keep out of danger. One of
the men whom he had seen in the little restaurant was lounging outside
of the first playhouse Buck visited. Before the films were fully run
the reporter slipped out through one of the side exits into an alley.

It was so dark there that he hardly could see the ground under foot.
Twenty assailants might be waiting in the gloom for aught he could
tell. The reporter was not ashamed to take frankly to his heels and
rush out onto the lighted street as fast as he could. He noticed that
the lounger had disappeared from the theatre doorway.

Hoping now that he had thrown his unknown pursuers off the trail,
Buck visited a second moving picture playhouse. There a drunken man
plumped roughly down into the vacant seat next to him and tried to pick
a quarrel without any excuse at all. The reporter would have taken
this as rather a joke had it not been that there was no vile odor of
intoxicants on this drunkard’s breath. Shoving the rough to one side,
Buck hurried out of the theatre, walked quickly down the street to the
next corner; crossed there to see if he was followed; turned the next
corner; walked two blocks along an ill-lighted deserted side street and
there jumped into a dark doorway to listen.

Yes! there was no mistake about it! He could hear the patter of running
feet less than a quarter of a block behind. Ere Buck had time to flee,
rubber heels on the pursuers’ shoes deadened their footfalls again and
two shadowy figures appeared directly in front of his hiding place.
They paused there, breathing hard, and holding a hasty conference.

“How ever did he get away from you, Hermann?” snarled the bigger of the
two men to the other, whom Buck now recognized as the “drunken man” of
the theatre.

“Why talk about that now that he has again eluded us?” he growled. “If
only we had him here on this dark street, we could soon finish with
him.”

“Yes, we must catch him at once. He must still be in the neighborhood
and isn’t armed. I made sure of that in the restaurant a couple of
hours ago. But anyway, he can’t go far without Otto, Wilhelm or some of
the others seeing him. They are covering all of these three streets,
you know.”

The man addressed as Hermann grunted his assent.

“I’m winded from that run after the fool,” said he. “Let’s sit down in
this doorway and rest for a few moments.”

Buck’s heart began to beat faster. He knew that his discovery and
assault were only a matter of a few seconds. The scoundrelly pair had
now approached within arm’s reach of him, so without further delay the
reporter swung aloft his loaded cane and brought it down in a smashing
side blow on the head of the nearest man.

[Illustration: _A Narrow Escape._]

A bellow of rage and pain shocked the neighborhood into wakefulness. As
the second man leaped savagely at him, Buck evaded a wicked knife
stab and struck him full between the eyes with his clenched fist. The
fellow reeled, jerked a pistol from his pocket and emptied it blindly
at the place where his combatant had stood an instant before.

But Buck was bounding down the street as fast as his legs could carry
him, his camera bumping clumsily against his back. A cross-town trolley
car was clanging the bell down the next street and the breathless
reporter made a running jump to catch it. Just as he did so a third man
with a closely-cropped beard sprang after him from the curb. He caught
the camera and gave a mighty tug at it which broke the strap, and, with
the box in his hands, sent him sprawling backwards in the street. The
rushing trolley car did not stop, and Buck’s extraordinary agility was
all that enabled him to swing aboard safely.

“It’s a fine night, mister,” said the conductor, as he rang up the fare.

Buck answered him with the sourest of stares.




CHAPTER VII WHAT HAPPENED TO NED


Alan Hope reached the Newark factory of the Universal Transportation
Company shortly before eleven o’clock that night, after an uneventful
trip out via the suburban railroad service. He found the big plant
gloomy and silent, without a light to show that activity was really
going on within. In response to a prearranged code of rings on the bell
at the great main gates, he was admitted.

The _Ocean Flyer_ had been wheeled to the extreme end of the big
aviation field where she might have plenty of room for her initial rise
into the air, and the factory foreman informed Alan that all was now
ready for departure at any minute.

Ned Napier arrived within ten minutes after his chum. Although he had
sustained no actual mishap on the way out, it was by sheer luck only
that he escaped the trap which had been laid for him. He had attended
the performance at the Winter Garden, purposely leaving early. In the
foyer as he went out a stranger in full evening dress (apparently one
of the spectators finishing his between-acts cigarette) accosted him
with extreme politeness:

“Dear gentleman, your pardon,” said he, “but are you not Mr. Edward
Napier, the aeronaut?”

“No,” Ned answered him coldly. “My name is Lloyd Jenkins. I am a
traveling shoe salesman.”

“My mistake, then,” laughed the stranger lightly. “Just to show that
there’s no hard feelings, won’t you join me in a little drink down at
the bar?”

“No, thank you,” the boy answered, “I never use intoxicating liquors,”
and then, being already suspicious, brushed on past the stranger and
out into the street.

The usual line of taxicabs lined the whole curb on both sides of
Broadway for a block or more. As soon as Ned appeared there was a
hoarse-voiced chorus of shouts:

“Taxi! Taxicab, sir? This way, sir! Taxicab?”

Several of the chauffeurs crowded around Ned, trying to persuade him
to patronize them rather than their fellows. One driver, muffled deep
in a fur-collared overcoat, even went so far as to lay his hand on the
boy’s arm.

“I have a big, comfortable limousine car here,” he said. “Same price as
those stuffy little taxis.”

Out of the corner of his eye Ned just then saw the persistent stranger
of the theatre lobby coming out of the entrance towards him, and, not
being anxious for any further acquaintance, the boy turned hastily to
the chauffeur, saying:

“All right! Your limousine for me!”

“Where to, sir?”

Ned was properly cautious.

“The Grand Central Station,” he answered, intending then to change to
another taxicab which could double on his tracks and take him on to the
rendezvous in Newark.

The gentleman in evening clothes was hurrying towards Ned, signaling
wildly for him to wait.

“Drive ahead!” called the boy to his chauffeur, and plunged into the
black, cushioned depths of the big limousine. Ned kept right on going
through, however, tore open the door on the opposite side, and was
plunged headlong to the pavement by the sudden rush of the machine as
it fairly leaped into high speed. There in the gloom of the car he had
vaguely observed the uneasy stir of a man hidden beneath the heaped-up
rugs in the corner.

The boy raced across the street, dodging whizzing motors and heedless
of angrily-honking horns, sprang inside the nearest taxicab and yelled
to the driver:

“Give her all the juice you can! Five dollars extra if you can get me
to Brooklyn Bridge within twenty-five minutes!”

“I’ll do my darnedest,” the chauffeur, a grizzled man of fifty, assured
him.

They were off in a jiffy, amid a grating of gear-shifts and thunderous
explosions of the opened exhaust. The motor began to whine as the gas
was fed more and more rapidly; the white glare of Broadway slipped
past the cab windows in a dull blur. Traffic policemen’s whistles were
merely unheeded incidentals of the mad race.

Peering back through the little window in the rear of the machine, Ned
saw at least two other automobiles join in the pursuit from the front
of the theatre. The big limousine was one of them. The stranger in
evening clothes and another man were craning their necks out of the
other.

“Turn over onto Fifth Avenue and double up and down some of the side
streets as fast as you can,” called Ned through the speaking tube
to his chauffeur. “Never mind about Brooklyn Bridge. There are two
machines behind that I want to shake off our trail.”

“All right, boss,” replied the chauffeur. “You just leave it to Barney
O’Dorgan to lose any other chasing taxi in this old town.”

From then on it became a game of hide-and-go-seek. Finally away over
on the East Side, it looked as if the pursuers had been shaken off.
No sign of them had been apparent for at least half an hour, and Ned
was just congratulating himself, when the car turned a corner, and
right there, at a standstill under the arc-light, in the center of the
otherwise deserted street, stood the big limousine, with the three men
arguing violently beside it.

Chauffeur Barney O’Dorgan caught sight of it as soon as Ned did.
Simultaneously the trio recognized their lost quarry and started
towards it at a run. There was neither time nor space for Barney
O’Dorgan to turn his car about, so, as cool as you please, he simply
threw his gear lever as far as it would go, flooded the cylinders with
gas, and the taxicab began to race backwards at as furious a pace as
it had previously gone forward.

Seeing their prey escaping, all three of the pursuers jerked revolvers
from their coats and opened fire. Two bullets shattered the windshield
in front of intrepid Barney’s face; another tore its vicious way
through the wooden body of the cab and imbedded itself with a dull thud
in the back wall not a foot from Ned’s head. All of the other shots
went wild. Two blocks down this side street and the cursing pursuers
were left more than half of that distance behind. Then chauffeur Barney
reversed his gears, turned the machine about, and sped on his way, with
Ned exulting behind him.

“Barney, you’re a peach, and you won’t ever regret the way you’ve stuck
by me to-night,” Ned called gratefully.

“Oh, that’s all right,” the Irishman made answer. “I knew by your looks
that you weren’t a crook, and certainly I wouldn’t let that gang of
high-binders nab you. Where to now, sir?”

The driver certainly had proved himself trustworthy, so Ned decided to
tell him his true destination.

“Have you gasoline enough left to drive me to the plant of the
Universal Transportation Company in Newark?” he asked.

“Plenty of gas,” grinned Barney, “but I’m not so sure about the air in
my tires. Wait until I look at them.”

The tires proved hard and sound, however. Once more Barney took the
wheel, and from there on the ride to the rendezvous was uneventful.
Ned presented the chauffeur with thirty dollars as a reward for his
fidelity.

“That was a mighty close shave of yours, Ned,” said Alan, after he had
heard the story, “but where can Buck Stewart be? It’s already past the
time we agreed upon. Do you suppose they could have caught him?”

“Not yet, my boys,” cried a hearty voice behind them, and there stood
the reporter, his clothes rumpled, his hat dented out of shape and
with pockets a-bulge with notebooks. “There are only two parts of me
missing--my camera and cane, and I had to leave them in other hands
without stopping to argue about it.”

Then Buck told the story of his thrilling night’s experiences and
mutual congratulations followed.

“Well, I guess that we’ve given them all the slip at last,” said Alan,
“and since it’s away past the hour we fixed for starting, let’s take
our places aboard the _Flyer_ and be off. We haven’t any too much time
to lose, you know.”

“Right-o!” echoed Buck and Ned.

So the trio made their way to where the huge airship stood ready. They
swung up the ladder into the main port. Ned took his position in the
pilot room; Buck in the engine room. Alan made a hasty survey of the
vessel, poking around here and there with a powerful hand-searchlight
to see that all was as it should be. Their hearts beat high with
excitement, which likewise agitated the little group of factory
mechanics who had gathered to see them off. Just as Ned was about to
signal Bob for their start, there came a tremendous battering upon the
great barred doors of the factory.

“Open and admit us!” roared an authoritative, bull-like voice. “Let no
man leave here before we enter--in the name of the United States of
America!”




CHAPTER VIII SIX MILES UP IN THE AIR


For an instant the hearts of all the boys stood still and each looked
at the other in consternation.

“In the name of the United States of America!”

That meant that in some inexplicable way their project had leaked out
and that the federal government had sent officers to prevent their
going.

The heavy pounding on the great gate had resumed and now the same
commanding voice shouted:

“Are you going to open to us, or is this intended as resistance of the
law? I give you two minutes to open these doors before we smash them
in!”

“That fellow means business,” whispered Alan. “Whatever can we do?
We dare not oppose them, yet to let them in means the indefinite
postponement of our flight.”

“We’ll go anyway,” said Ned, his eyes lighting with determination.
“This is only another scheme to delay us. Are you all ready there, Mr.
Engineer?”

“Whenever you say the word,” answered Bob up through the tube.

“Then start your engines! We’ll be a mile up in the sky before they can
break in those heavy doors.”

So saying, Ned jammed down hard on his starting lever, the whir of the
big turbines swelled forth. But not a tremor shook the _Ocean Flyer_.
It did not budge an inch.

Someone had been tampering with the pilot room apparatus.

With a groan of desperation, Ned bent over the complexity of gears.
He located the trouble almost immediately and was relieved to note
that it was merely superficial--a matter of minutes to repair. But too
late! At that moment the big yard gates were burst open forcibly and in
strode four burly federal plain-clothes men, displaying their badges
of authority. One other man accompanied them. Alan, who went out on
the lowest exposed gangway of the _Flyer_ to meet them, recognized him
in an instant. It was Mr. Geisthorn, the local correspondent of the
_Berliner Tageblatt_.

“Is this Mr. Napier?” growled the leader.

“No, I am Mr. Hope. Mr. Napier will be here presently.”

The officer pulled an official looking document from his breast pocket
and extended it towards Alan.

“We have a warrant for the arrest of both of you gentlemen. Also for
that of one Stewart, said to be connected with the New York _Herald_.”

“Mr. Stewart will also be here presently,” said Alan. “Upon what charge
are we to be detained?”

“Conspiracy--attempting to violate the federal neutrality by lending
aid to one or another of the warring nations in Europe.”

“That is untrue.”

“I have nothing at all to do with that. My instructions are simply to
place a man on guard over this vessel and to escort you gentlemen to
the secretary of state at Washington.”

Alan’s wits were working fast. He was fighting to gain time, and the
taffrail beneath his fingers was aquiver with subtle tremors; he could
feel the premonitory hum of the engines as first one and then the other
of the big turbines began moving. Ned had fixed the damage and things
were going down in the engine room. The hum became a whir, a buzz and
steady purr. The _Ocean Flyer_ trembled momentarily from stem to
stern. The eleven-foot “moon” propellers began to whirl with rapidly
increasing velocity. Then suddenly the streams of compressed air began
to sing in a way that was like the terrifying moan of a cyclone near
at hand. Then the tornado burst. Driven irresistibly forward by the
most powerful propellers ever devised by man, that vast mass of steel
surrendered and slid jolting forward for twenty yards or so, scattering
the spectators wildly. With a bound the huge craft rose into the still
air and plunged forward and upward on a forty-five degree angle at
rapidly increasing speed.

“Stop, in the name of--” The official’s thunderous voice was lost in
the distance. The factory buildings and the little group of detectives
seemed to be dropping farther and farther down below, and, were it
not for the rush of the wind, the _Flyer_ might have seemed to be
stationary. The figures on the aviation field already were dwarfed by
distance and half obliterated in the darkness. A sudden flash of red
light stabbed the shades far beneath, and the report of the officer’s
revolver was faintly audible.

Already the airship was sailing out over Greater New York. The lighted
streets far below checked the area into rectangular figures like a
gigantic chessboard. Broadway became a hazy blur of white, and the
atmosphere took on a different quality--biting, hardy, more rarified.
The stars which sparkled coldly down there on earth, became blazing,
golden jewels in a setting of black velvet, which was the sky. The
noise of the engines was now a low, steady drone.

The trip to Europe and the great war had begun.

       *       *       *       *       *

There is nothing in particular to tell about the three-thousand mile
air voyage across the Atlantic. To Alan, Ned and Buck, snugly encased
within the automatically heated interior of the _Ocean Flyer_, the
sense of aloofness from solid earth was lost, and it seemed much as if
they were seated at their office desks back on Fifth Avenue.

The height of six miles from earth level at which they traveled,
blotted out all sight of tangible objects, the comparative distance
from which might have made the altitude terrifying to less experienced
aviators than the Airship Boys. Sometimes the _Flyer_ cut its way
through clouds, but the main strata of these even lay far below them.
All that was visible through the heavily glassed portholes was a dull,
grayish void. The terrific rate of speed at which they were traveling
was not at all apparent.

The young aeronauts were kept too busy managing the ship to have
spent much time star-gazing if there had been something of outside
interest. Ned and Alan took turns in steering the course and taking
hourly observations upon one or another of the exceedingly delicate
instruments at their command. Buck stood to the engines in the hold,
being relieved by one of the other boys when it came his turn to sleep
or prepare meals.

Speaking of eating; those little repasts that Buck Stewart prepared in
the cook’s galley were absolutely mouth-watering. Had he not been so
able a newspaper reporter, he would have made a better chef. Oh! those
luscious, thick, juicy steaks, oozing such odoriferous steam and a-swim
in milk gravy from the same pan; hashed, golden-brown potatoes, one
mouthful of which was to implant an insatiable craving for more; little
green pickles with a real tang to them and flavored by the cinnamon,
nutmeg and tasty spices in which they were bottled; flap-jacks, rich
with molasses; sugar cakes and rich coffee that warmed one down to the
very toe tips; and _fruits_! Well, there were big, rosy-cheeked apples,
that kind of oranges which can be smelled all over the room, nuts,
raisins and what not. The larder was well stocked, and Buck Stewart
certainly knew how to prepare it appetizingly if ever anyone did.

Fortunately the weather continued fair and no dangerous air-pockets or
unexpected whirlpool wind currents were met with. The eighteenth hour
of their flight found everything going as well as possibly could be
wished. Their watches were still set to New York time; it was now six
P. M. in America, but midnight in London. There was a full moon, and it
was quite light.

“By this time,” observed Ned, “we ought to be pretty near the English
coast, so I would suggest that we drop the _Flyer_ down to an altitude
where we can locate ourselves more definitely by actual landmarks.”

This was done. With the huge wing-like planes expanded to the full, the
_Ocean Flyer_ coasted aslant the air-waves. The cloud belt encircling
the globe was penetrated and passed through, leaving small drops of
moisture glistening all over the glass of the portholes. The moon’s
rays made the metal body of the vessel glitter like so much silver. As
they dropped lower and lower, the world became dimly visible, seeming
to be literally rising to meet the descending aviators. At an altitude
of three thousand feet, the downward planing was discontinued and level
flight again maintained.

To the one hand stretched the seemingly endless expanse of gray,
breaker-crested ocean, but on the other, due ahead, lay the rock-bound,
irregular coast of the British Isles. Not so very far away now, was
poor Bob Russell on trial for his life.

All three boys were thinking about him. It was not necessary to mention
his name.

“Not long now,” said Ned.

“No, not long,” agreed Alan and Buck.




CHAPTER IX PARIS PROVES UNFRIENDLY


The course of the _Ocean Flyer_ was altered slightly so as to avoid
passing over England and risking pot-shots from a people who were
already in a semi-hysteria over the threatened invasion by German
Zeppelins. The next land they saw was the coast of northern France.
They followed the Norman coast for a short distance and then once more
headed inland.

The flying speed had been reduced to thirty miles per hour, when the
airship first sank to a three thousand foot level, and, traveling
thus slowly, the boys had a pretty good chance to observe the country
beneath them through their powerful binoculars.

Normandy, the district where the Airship Boys first began flying over
France, had not yet been touched by hostile invasion, and, save for the
absence of the usual fleets of fishing smacks along the coast, was to
all appearances the same quaint, sleepy region as ever. Farther inland,
however, the ravages the war had made were more plainly visible. Few
trains could be seen, and in many cases railway bridges or the tracks
themselves had been torn up. Fields lay, for the most part, untilled;
smoke no longer belched from the long, finger-like chimneys of busy
factories. Nantes, Angiers, Le Mans and Chartres, all huge cities over
which the _Flyer_ passed, showed little activity save that even at
this early hour crowds were congregated in the principal squares and
in front of the government offices where daily returns from the battle
front were posted.

The appearance of the _Ocean Flyer_ was invariably the cause of intense
excitement. People scurried frantically about, church bells rang the
alarm and soldiers ran to their posts on the fortifications. Observed
from the boys’ elevated position, the scene greatly resembled an
ant-hill disturbed with a stick.

The city of Chartres was only a comparatively short flight, even at
their reduced speed, for the boys from Paris, the capital of France.
Twenty minutes after passing over the former city, the Eiffel Tower,
tallest structure in Paris, appeared, and soon other world-famous
landmarks were easily discernible through the glasses. There arose
the imposing, ages-old towers of the Notre Dame Cathedral, set on
an island in the middle of the river Seine, which, under its many
handsome bridges, wound like a silver ribbon through the gray expanse
of buildings which go to make up the fourth largest city in the
world. There lay the Palais Royal, with its celebrated shops and
restaurants; there the Louvre, Luxembourg and the Tuileries, stored
with priceless art treasures and famous in history as the palaces of
great kings. There was the green shrubbery of the public parks and the
white, ribbon-like lines which marked the Bois and the Champs Elysees,
those famous boulevards and promenades of fashion, radiating from the
Tuileries like the points of an immense star.

But what a vast change from the gay, teeming metropolis of less than a
year previous. The streets were nearly deserted, the pleasure seekers
were fled before the hot, scathing blast of war, like chaff in a strong
wind; the tables before the gay little cafes lining the boulevards were
turned bottom-side up and dusty with long disuse. There was no roar of
traffic, no shrill cries, no rumblings of passenger-filled omnibuses.
The Avenue de l’Opera was as quiet and deserted as a village street.
Automobiles had disappeared; only here and there meandered ancient
cabs driven by doddering grandfathers and drawn by skeleton horses
with sprung knees. A mournful, oppressive silence brooded over the
lightest-hearted city in the world.

The grass in the Tuileries gardens was unkept and stood ankle high.
The wooded shades of the Bois de Boulogne had been turned into a great
pasture for herds of cattle, goats and sheep, to provide food in case
the Germans again succeeded in actually besieging the city. Palaces and
celebrated public buildings were converted into hospitals. The young
men were all at the front fighting; only the aged and wounded remained
in Paris.

The city had not yet recovered from its fright of four months previous
when the conquering regiments of the Kaiser trampled Belgium underfoot
and advanced almost within cannon range of the walls. Even then the
battle was raging and bayonet charges were daily occurrences in the
trenches less than an hour’s automobile drive to the northeast.

Lookouts were stationed on all of the higher buildings to give warning
of the approach of bomb-dropping German aviators in their wide, white,
flat-winged “Taube” aeroplanes.

The coming of the huge, shining _Ocean Flyer_ was seen while it was
yet a considerable distance from the city and a whole flock of French
military aeroplanes arose birdlike into the sky to meet it. They
resembled hornets defending their nest. As the big airship planed down
towards them with its seventy-two feet of planes, extended like wings
on each side, the flock of smaller French aircraft shot suddenly apart
in different directions, realizing their helplessness to combat this
new threatening monster of the air. Some planed down like arrows into
the city again seeking safety. Others began to sweep in wide circles
around the _Ocean Flyer_, not daring to approach nearer. The harsh roar
of their motors and propellers could be heard even within the pilot
house where Ned stood guiding the _Flyer’s_ course.

Then the alarmed Parisians unlimbered their much-talked-of aerial
cannon on this new menace from the clouds. As each ugly black nozzle
was tilted skywards, there came a puff of greenish smoke, flame spat
forth and a huge shell was hurled straight at the approaching airship.
Most of these terrible missiles fell far short of their mark, but the
gunners of a battery stationed in the top of the Eiffel Tower were
quick in getting a better range and made it very dangerous for the
Airship Boys to continue their descent.

“Holy smoke!” gasped Alan, as one cannon shell burst with a terrific
detonation less than one hundred feet to the left of the _Flyer_ and
almost keeled it over sidewise. “This is getting too hot for me. They
think we’re a new type of German Zeppelin. Shoot her up higher, Ned.
Let’s get out of here quick.”

“I’ll raise her higher, of course,” answered Ned, at the wheel, “but
it’s a shame that we can’t get a closer view of Paris in wartime. That
would be something to tell the folks about when we get back home.”

Cr--cr--cra-sh! Boom!

The whole metal-plated frame of the _Flyer_ shook violently and
careened wildly to one side from the concussion of another lyddite
shell. Only quick action on Ned’s part prevented their capsizing.

“We won’t ever get home to tell anybody about anything if you don’t
drive the ship higher pretty soon,” yelled Alan.

Ned was the cooler of the two.

“All right,” said he, “but I do wish that you could manage to signal
some of these aeroplanes skimming around us that we are friends
instead of enemies, and that we want to alight down there in the city.”

Alan looked doubtful, but finally agreed. As Ned jammed the elevation
lever down hard in its socket and forced the _Ocean Flyer_ slowly
forward on a decided up-slant, his chum made his way out onto the
runway which encircled most of the _Flyer’s_ hull, and there, clinging
firmly to the iron taffrail with one hand, wig-wagged pacific signals
with a white flag gripped in the other.

Either the circling French aviators did not understand his signals,
or thought that the white flag was merely intended to deceive
them, for all save one of them totally disregarded it. That single
dare-devil bird-man drove his monoplane--like a flea going against an
elephant--straight, head-on, at the _Ocean Flyer_ the moment Alan made
his appearance outside. His face was set in frantic determination.

A startled cry of warning escaped the boy clinging in the terrific
wind there on the narrow runway, who thought that the madman intended
to crash into the bigger airship and so sacrifice his own life in the
attempt to disable the supposed enemy.

But that was not the daring Frenchman’s intent. When the roar of his
whirling tail propellers deafened Alan’s hearing and it seemed as if
in another second the little monoplane would be dashed against the
_Flyer_, the Frenchman tilted his planes sharply, swerved on a perilous
angle that almost overturned his light craft, and, as he swept past in
a rush of wind, jerked a revolver from his belt with one hand and fired
full into Alan’s blanched face. A second later he swooped down towards
the watching city below.

Alan felt a sudden stinging sensation on his cheek and could not
suppress a cry of pain. Something warm began to trickle down his cheek.
A sudden giddiness made his head swim. His eyes blurred and he felt
that he might topple over the narrow taffrail at any moment.

Blindly he groped behind him for the handle of the door leading back
into the ship--found it, tried to call for help--then stumbled forward
and sank huddled to the airship floor unconscious.




CHAPTER X AN ADVENTURE IN THE ARDENNES


Both Ned and Buck were too busily engaged in getting the _Ocean Flyer_
out of range of the aerial guns to miss Alan for fully ten minutes.
They shot the airship almost obliquely upwards over the city until the
clouds shut off all sight of it from them and even the most daring of
the pestering French aeroplanes could follow them no higher. Then Ned
noticed for the first time that Alan had not returned to the pilot
house.

“Is Alan down there in the engine room with you, Buck?” he called
through the speaking tube.

“No. Good gracious! Isn’t he with you either?” exclaimed Buck
anxiously. “Everything here seems to be running smoothly, so I’m going
to risk leaving it a few minutes to look for him.”

It was not a hard matter to find Alan where he lay huddled up just
inside the port door. With a cry of consternation Buck dropped upon his
knees beside the silent figure, turned it over gently and was shocked
to note the bloody ghastliness of his comrade’s face.

Severe newspaper training was strong in Buck Stewart though. He did not
turn squeamish or raise Ned’s anxieties by shouting that Alan had been
wounded. Ned needed his whole mind for the management of the Flyer, and
Buck realized that.

Gathering the insensible boy up in his arms, Buck carried him into one
of the small staterooms, hurriedly bathed his face in warm water, and
was relieved to discover that what had at first appeared to be a mortal
wound was merely an abrasion of the flesh where the Frenchman’s bullet
had grazed its way. Alan revived a few minutes afterward, and while
his legs were still a little shaky he protested that he felt quite his
usual self.

After their hostile reception at Paris, the Airship Boys realized that
it would be folly to attempt a similar daylight descent upon Muhlbruck,
where Bob Russell was imprisoned. Also the appalling screech of
bursting shells going past had given them a heartfelt disinclination to
get the _Ocean Flyer_ anywhere between the lines of fire on the battle
front.

Examination of a war map presented to them by the editor of the New
York _Herald_ showed plainly that the nearest trenches of the opposing
armies lay about forty miles to the northeast of Paris, extending
thence in the form of a rough semicircle, indented towards the north,
for a length of nearly two hundred miles. One end of this titanic
battle front ended on the shores of the North Sea in Belgium; the
other in French territory in the Meuse prefecture. In order to reach
Muhlbruck it was necessary for the _Flyer_ to pass directly over the
firing-lines somewhere in the Ardennes forest region, and then to
proceed northerly, tending somewhat to the east until crossing the
Belgian frontier, near which Muhlbruck is situated. The latest reports
of the war showed the fiercest fighting just then to be going on
far to the south along the river Meuse, and northwesterly along the
Aisne, a few miles within French territory, where the Germans were
making desperate daily assaults upon the allied French and English
intrenchments. The severe guerrilla fighting which had nearly turned
the Ardennes region into a shambles had then ceased almost entirely,
while General von Kluck, commanding the German army of the west, was
endeavoring to force the arms of his crescent battle line westward
in around the Allied forces and by so doing compel them either to be
surrounded and captured, or else to fall back upon Paris once more.

“It looks to me,” said Ned, outlining the positions on the map with one
finger, “that it will be best for us to cross the firing line there
in the Ardennes, flying high so as to be out of the range of those
tremendous German field guns which they say can carry a cannon ball
fifteen miles or more. If you boys think well of it, we might even drop
the _Flyer_ in the Ardennes forest, get a chance to stretch the cramps
out of our legs there, and still get to Muhlbruck long before dark.”

Both Alan and Buck approved heartily of this plan and so it was decided
upon. Estimating the distance between their present position and the
Ardennes by their maps and instruments, the _Ocean Flyer_ proceeded on
its way, concealed from sight by the heavy cloud banks beneath. While
the sun was still high, they saw that they had arrived somewhere in the
neighborhood of the intended stopping-place. Ned then began planing as
straight downwards as he dared and shortly afterwards shouted:

“There it is, boys! We figured the time and distance exactly. There are
the tree-tops!”

Sure enough, there extended the green expanse of the great Ardennes
wood, with the dull glint of the setting sun gilding the leaves and
branches. Afar in the distance, a mere speck in the flame-colored sky,
a solitary observation balloon was ascending. Somewhere away to the
northwards the dull, monotonous booming of cannon could be heard like
the rumble of distant thunder. The woods showed no signs of life; there
were no spirals of smoke rising into the still evening air to warn the
young aeronauts of near-by camp fires.

Sailing slowly over the tree-tops and gradually dropping lower and
lower, the _Flyer_ finally came upon an open glade perhaps half a mile
square and ideally located for a landing. Its only obstruction was a
clump of maybe half a dozen ancient oaks standing almost in the middle
of the area.

There Ned brought the big airship to earth as lightly as a bird, and
the three boys jumped out to enjoy their first touch of Mother Earth
since leaving New York nearly a day before. The air was mild and
odoriferous with the smell of the forest and all took huge breaths of
it gratefully. Buck pranced about like a colt let loose in pasture, and
he and Alan ran short races up and down the glade to stretch their
cramped muscles.

“Now, boys,” called Ned, “it is time that we held a serious council of
war to decide just how we are going to manage Bob’s escape. Let’s sit
down under these trees here and make final arrangements, because by
midnight we’ll be at Muhlbruck and won’t want to waste any time in that
dangerous vicinity.”

So they sat there under the biggest tree in the center of the field and
talked things over.

Alan said: “I don’t see how we can decide upon any very definite plan
until after we get there and find out the lie of the land. For all
that we know, the prison where they have Bob locked up may be right in
the center of the town with a couple thousand watchful soldiers around
it. I don’t believe that we’ll ever be able to get near enough to the
prison to get Bob out without some leg-work.”

“I’ve been thinking of that too,” said Ned, “and feel pretty sure
that some one of us will have to go into town disguised to get exact
information, while the other two of us remain to guard the _Flyer_ and
be ready to lend assistance whenever we are called upon. The difficulty
is to say which one of us ought to undertake the perilous mission of
spy. You know if the Germans ever caught him he would be in an even
worse fix than poor old Bob.”

“Let me go, Ned,” pleaded Alan, his face aglow with enthusiasm. “I’m
perfectly willing to take the risk.”

“No, let me go,” said Buck. “Both of you boys are absolutely needed to
manage the airship, and in a pinch can get along well enough without
me. Besides that, I can speak German well enough to pass in the dark,
and my newspaper work has given me more practical experience in the
sleuthing line than either of you two have had.

“Personally I don’t think the chances are that I would run much danger
of detection there in disguise after midnight, but, even if they do get
suspicious, I could show them the war-correspondent’s credentials given
you by the _Herald_. I don’t believe that even grouchy old General
Haberkampf is crazy enough to risk getting the American press down on
him by mistreatment of me should I have to shove those papers under his
nose.”

“I think that you exaggerate the importance of the New York _Herald_
over here in the war zone,” said Alan with a smile. “Remember that the
_Herald_ card didn’t prevent the Germans from throwing Bob into their
beastly prison.”

“But that was quite a different case,” explained Buck. “Bob Russell was
caught with certain papers on his person which are said to have branded
him as a hostile spy.”

“However--” began Alan again.

Ned interrupted him.

“Buck is right, Alan,” said he. “I don’t like to think of his risking
his life in this way, but he is clearly better fitted for the job than
either you or I. I understand how disappointed you are in not getting
the chance to risk it for good old Bob’s sake, and I’m just as sorry
that I can’t do it. But Buck’s knowledge of the German language, his
experience in this sort of thing, and the fact that he can the better
bluff about being a regular newspaper correspondent, all make him the
logical man for it. You and I will have to give in.”

Alan was very much disappointed that things turned out so and tossed
back his head to conceal his chagrin. As he did so his eye caught sight
of something strange in the bushy tree-top directly above their heads.

“Look, boys, isn’t that a little house up there?” he cried, pointing.

As he did so there came a chorus of guttural exclamations from the
concealing leaves up above, and, before the startled Airship Boys
had time to do more than scramble to their feet, at least a dozen
shaggy-bearded German soldiers, in ragged, dirt-stained gray uniforms,
came sliding one after another down the surrounding tree-trunks.

“Hands up!” roared one who seemed to be in command, and, even though
he spoke in German, there was no mistaking the meaning of the musket
barrels pointed threateningly at the three boys.




CHAPTER XI THE FIGHT IN THE FOREST


For an instant the heart of each boy stood still. Then things began to
happen. Ned shot straight from his hip, the revolver bullet tearing its
way straight through his coat pocket and wounding the nearest soldier.

Buck grappled closely with the soldier closest to him, beat down the
threatening gun muzzle, felt the discharge scorch his leg in passing,
and rolled over and over on the ground, arms interlocked in deadly
combat.

Alan sprang behind the nearest tree and opened fire on the assailants,
with a revolver in each hand spitting lead as fast he could pull the
trigger.

Muskets belched flame and smoke in a half-circle around them, but Ned
was safely behind a sheltering tree-trunk before the deadly leaden hail
could reach him. Another soldier fell, howling with pain, and a third
clapped one hand to his shoulder where a well-sped bullet from Alan’s
revolver had lodged. The Germans took shelter behind adjacent trees,
as the boys had done, and only Buck and his opponent still rolled out,
exposed to fire. Yet neither the boys or the Germans dared shoot at the
struggling men for fear of wounding one of their own party.

Ned cast a longing, regretful eye at the _Ocean Flyer_ where it stood
not fifty yards away. He blamed himself for their folly in ever leaving
its protecting walls. Besides, he knew that their revolvers were nearly
empty and that they had no spare cartridges in their pockets.

He shouted to Alan in English, which the Germans could not of course
understand, to work his way back towards the airship.

Dodging from tree to tree, the two boys gradually came within about
twenty yards of the _Flyer_. In the meantime, the Germans had divined
their intentions and had followed them closely, keeping up a hot fire
all the time. The intervening distance between the airship and the boys
would have to be covered by a dash across the exposed open ground,
where the Germans could hardly fail to get them.

“Don’t risk it, Ned,” cried Alan.

“One of us absolutely must,” answered the other boy desperately. “We
are all lost if we don’t.”

Then before Alan could protest further, the courageous lad darted from
cover and was bounding across the dangerous open space towards the
_Flyer_.

Twenty German bullets went hissing after him and the entire crowd
pursued with hoarse shouts of rage. Alan bowled over one of them as he
ran, and then himself rushed after Ned. None of the soldiers took time
to pause, aim and shoot. They were too anxious to catch the fleeing
boys.

Up the swaying rope ladder leading to the open portway clambered Ned,
with Alan crowding close on his heels. The former threw himself inside,
but the Germans were too close for Alan to risk it. He felt hot breath
on the back of his neck, heard the man behind him panting heavily, and,
with one foot on the first rung of the ladder, wheeled with clubbed
revolver to defend himself. His arm swung back to dash it into the
man’s face, when--

“_Buck!_” cried he.

It was the reporter, who had finally succeeded in mastering his
assailant and had followed his two chums in their desperate race for
the safety of the _Flyer_.

There was no time for further conversation, however, for the yelling
Germans were now fairly on top of them. Alan’s revolvers snapped
harmlessly. They were empty. Buck fired his remaining four bullets
right into their faces and then struck out with his fists. It looked as
if it were all up with the brave boys until suddenly Ned appeared on
the airship runway overhead. In his hand he held raised a black, round,
metal object about the size of a football.

“Stand back!” he shouted in a terrible tone. “Every one of you Germans
stand back or I swear I will blow you all to pieces with this lyddite
grenade!”

The deadly explosive hung there almost above their heads and every man
of them knew what it was.

Involuntarily they fell back, and in that minute while they hesitated,
Alan and Buck bounded up the companion-ladder into safety in the hold
of the airship. As the metal door clanged shut and locked automatically
behind them, they heard the enraged Germans hammering upon it with the
butts of their muskets.

“To your engines, Buck!” shouted Ned from above. “Quick! Alan, help me
in the pilot house here!”

The starting lever was jammed down into place. The hum of the great
turbines became a roar. The huge propellers swished mightily round and
round. The _Ocean Flyer_ began to slip over the grass, with the frantic
Germans giving ground reluctantly. Then the huge bulk gradually lifted
itself from the earth and skimmed like a swallow heavenwards over the
now dusky tree-tops. German bullets rattled like hail over the metal
sides of the vessel.

Alan smiled grimly at Ned.

“They don’t realize that magnalium alloy is as good as armor plate,” he
said. “Unless a stray bullet happens to snap some mechanical part of
the tail propellers, they’re welcome to shoot as much as they want to
now.”

Ned nodded as he shaped the _Flyer’s_ course towards the north where
the frontier and Muhlbruck lay.




CHAPTER XII BUCK TAKES HIS LIFE IN HIS HANDS


Black night had already fallen, blotting out sight of all lower
landmarks, and the Airship Boys had only their maps and instruments by
which to guide their path. But, as had been before proved, those were
ample for the purpose.

The young aeronauts were unable to tell just when they passed over
the long zig-zagging double line of trenches, which marked where the
hostile armies crouched, menacing each other, because all camp fires
were blanketed there. Experience in the early days of the war had
taught both Germans and Allies that a shining camp fire is an excellent
mark for bombs from any prowling aviator overhead.

Several villages sparsely lighted, and several cities with all lights
extinguished, were passed over before the _Flyer_ reached a point where
the boys knew that Muhlbruck must lie very nearly below them. They
planed down gently, found no place adequate for a safe landing, and
finally were forced to circle uncertainly there in mid-air, straining
their eyes down into the gloom below. They did not dare to investigate
the lie of the land with their searchlights, as that would instantly
have betrayed their presence to everyone within miles of the spot.

At last Alan observed a comparatively open and flat stretch of ground,
and they decided to take a chance on it. Fortunately it proved to
afford a better landing area than had been apparent from above, and the
_Ocean Flyer_ was once more brought to rest on firm ground.

The boys instantly discovered that they were in a large farmyard, with
a broad, dusty highway on the one side and a small unlighted cottage
near by. They were afraid at first that the inhabitants, if there were
any, had observed their approach and had slipped away to give warning.

Further examination of the premises showed this dread to be groundless,
however. As they stealthily tiptoed around the cottage, the boys could
plainly see that war had long since passed that way and driven off its
occupants. The walls were charred with fire, half of the straw-thatched
roof had fallen in and the door swung crazily askew on one hinge.

Investigation on the inside made clear that whoever the owners were,
they had left in great haste. Furniture was broken and overturned;
linen, bed-clothes and wearing apparel lay scattered all over the
floor. One wall was riddled with bullets.

Stooping, Buck gave vent to a pleased exclamation. He had found enough
old clothes out of which to disguise himself completely as a Belgian
peasant. Even the clumsy wooden shoes were unearthed from one corner of
the room.

“This simplifies everything,” he cried to Alan. “I’ll put these things
on right now and be off into town to see how things are. Unless I’m
much mistaken, this road beside us is the main highway into Muhlbruck,
which itself can’t be much more than a mile away if those maps of ours
are correct.

“In the meantime, you and Ned can wait here for me. If I’m still alive
and at liberty, I’ll be back here by sun-up sure. If I don’t show up by
then, you can rest assured that something unforeseen has happened to
detain me. In case anyone comes snooping around here while I am gone,
you boys had better go aloft in the _Flyer_ and return here again for
me to-morrow night. But be sure and wait here until daylight for me,
unless you are discovered.”

This plan was about the best that any of the boys could suggest, so
Buck donned the old clothes he had found, dirtied his face with dust
from the roadway and bade his chums good-bye cheerfully. They stared
regretfully after his retreating figure in the gloom.

“If anything happens to him, I never shall forgive myself,” said Ned.

Alan laughed in a brave attempt to seem lighter-hearted than he was.

“If anybody can come through this stunt safely, it’s Buck Stewart,”
he said. “Mark my words, he’ll be back here chipper as a sparrow by
sunrise, with a full plan of how and when we are to rescue Bob.”

“I certainly hope so,” muttered Ned, doubtfully.

Meanwhile, Buck was striding rapidly along the road into town, with his
cap pulled low over his eyes and his right hand nursing the handle of a
big revolver in his hip pocket. He skulked mostly along the side of the
way, where the black shadows from the hedges tended to conceal him. His
eyes kept shifting warily from left to right and his ears were strained
to catch any sound that might warn him of other prowlers on the road.

Frequently he passed wayside graves--sometimes a single mound of earth;
at other times a number of them side by side. Every somber mound of
earth was marked by a wooden cross, on the apex of many of which the
fallen soldier’s hat was hung. Buck noticed that in many cases, the
rough cap of a French infantryman hung side by side with battered
German helmets. The German army does everything neatly, thoroughly.
Whenever there is time it buries the fallen enemy as well as its own
dead.

By and by little gloomy houses began to appear straggling along the
wayside and Buck knew then that he was in the outskirts of the town.
No lights were shown in any of the windows. Not a cow lowed, nor dog
barked. The hush of either dread or desertion seemed heavy in the dark
night air.

Buck had not gone much farther when he was startled by a sharp:

“_Wer geht da?_” (Who goes there?) as a stalwart, gray-cloaked sentry
stepped out from the shadows of the roadside, with leveled and
bayoneted musket.

“_Ein Freund, ein armer Landsmann, Excellenz_,” (a friend, a poor
farmer, your excellency) answered Buck, gripping his revolver firmly.

“Stand out in the middle of the road where I can see you more plainly
in the moonlight,” gruffly ordered the sentinel, poking at the seeming
peasant with his sharp bayonet.

Buck obeyed him, feigning great humility. There was nothing suspicious
to the German in his appearance, but--

“What are you doing out so late and alone on the highroad here?”
demanded the sentry.

“Excellency, three weeks ago I had a home--such a nice cozy little
place!--down the road a mile or so. I ran away into Muhlbruck when your
army marched past on the road to Paris, and to-day I went back to see
if there was anything left for me.”

“And did you find anything, _Landsmann_?”

“No, excellency. The place was swept clean; even the nice little
cottage was half torn down.”

The burly German guffawed, as if at a huge joke.

“Now I know that you are telling me the truth, fellow,” he said. “I
know your place well. Why, I myself helped burst in the door you locked
so carefully on leaving. But you don’t bear me any ill-will for that,
do you, now?”

“No, excellency.”

“You had better not,” growled the sentry. “Pass on and don’t let me
catch you prowling around here any more of nights. I have orders to
shoot anybody whose looks I don’t like.”

“Yes, excellency, I will remember,” said the seeming peasant, and slunk
away in the direction of the town.




CHAPTER XIII “TO BE SHOT AT SUNRISE!”


The streets of the town were unlighted, but several houses on the
public square showed illumination through lowered window shades. There
were no citizens to be seen, and very few soldiers about. In front of
the Hotel de Ville (townhall) a sentry paced restlessly to and fro on
duty, with a musket laid across his arm. He took no notice of the dirty
peasant stalking past.

Buck made it his first business to locate the civic prison where he
knew that Bob would be confined. This he found not far from the main
thoroughfare of the town, a massive, square, gray-stone building,
with iron doors and many little grated windows high up on the walls.
A sentry-box beside the door was occupied, so Buck spent no time
loitering around there. He made his way back to the public square in
search of an inn where he might sit down, and while eating inquire
casually about news in general and the trials of war prisoners in
particular. He felt pretty sure that the down-trodden Belgians present
were sullen and discontented under the iron German rule, and would be
willing to discuss almost any topic relative to the oppressions.

The first tavern to which Buck came was large and pretentious;
evidently the main hostelry of the city. Even at this late hour people
were passing in and out of the big entrance. The disguised boy noted,
however, that many of these guests were German officers, and rightly
guessed that this being the chief inn of the city, it would be most
largely patronized by the conquerors, so he passed on in search of some
less popular place.

A little farther on down the street he came upon a smaller, more
dingy-looking public house, with apparently less revelry going on
inside. Buck determined to take a chance here, and, pulling his
disreputable cap lower over his eyes, pulled open the door and slouched
in.

He found himself in a small, low-ceilinged room, the walls and oaken
rafters of which were dirty and smoked black by the huge open fireplace
at one end. Rickety little wooden tables stood here and there, none too
clean nor inviting. A doorway at the far end of the room led out into
the kitchens, from which a vile odor of cabbage and onions penetrated.

There were only a few people present, and they appeared to be merely
scared townsfolk. Buck dropped into a chair at one of the greasy
tables, and a slatternly servant-maid took his order for something to
eat.

While she was serving him a little later on, she said:

“I do not recognize you as one of our regular customers, goodman. Are
you a stranger in Muhlbruck?”

“Yes,” replied Buck, “I was a farmer near Dinant before this war broke
out, but since then--well, you know how it is!”

“We here in Muhlbruck should know if anybody does,” grumbled the girl.
“The Germans have overrun the town, taken all the best for themselves,
half of the time without paying for it, and treat us honest people as
if we were born their servants. Now, old General Haberkampf, who is in
command of the division stationed here, is throwing all of our best
citizens into prison on trumped-up charges of one kind or another.”

“Ah!” said Buck. “Is he doing such an outrageous thing as that? But
then, maybe he thinks that they are playing him double--are spies, in
other words.”

“Bah! Spies nothing!” exclaimed the girl indignantly. “That is an
old yarn! There is that young American newspaper correspondent now!
The Germans have thrown him into prison too and claim that papers
were found upon him. And now they are going to shoot him at sunrise
to-morrow.”

“_To shoot him at sunrise?_” ejaculated Buck, with difficulty
restraining himself from showing his agitation. “Surely you cannot mean
that!”

“Oh, but I do,” replied the girl. “They tried him before a military
tribunal in the Hotel de Ville this afternoon. No outsiders were
admitted, and that beast of a General Haberkampf wastes no time in
carrying out his decisions. The poor young man will be taken out and
shot at sunrise in the fields just west of the town. That is where
all these ‘acts of justice’ have been taking place since the terrible
Germans came to Muhlbruck.

“They back the condemned man up against the remaining wall of the old
church there; the firing squad stands off at a distance of thirty
paces; ‘Ready! Aim! Fire!’ says the corporal in charge, and pouff!
another life is snuffed out.”

Buck was horror-stricken at the terrible fate that threatened his old
friend within less than three or four hours. Almost the Airship Boys
had come too late, and even now it was a question whether or not he
could get back to the airship and make plans for a rescue in time to
save him.

Buck easily recalled the place set for the execution. He had passed it
not a hundred yards from the highroad, about a quarter of a mile from
town.

His brain was in a whirl. He was unable to formulate any practicable
scheme of effecting the rescue. The sun at that time of year rose about
five o’clock, or five-thirty at the latest. All preparations must be
made before then.

Paying his bill at the inn, Buck hurried out into the damp night air
again and set out for the place where he had left his comrades. Once
clear of the town, he broke into a run. Approaching the vicinity of the
sentinel who had challenged him on his way in about an hour before,
the reporter made a wide detour through the dew-wet fields to the left
of the road. He got by that danger point in safety, struck the highway
again and resumed his breathless race against time.

Finally, panting with his exertions and bathed in perspiration, he
arrived at the peasant’s ruined hut and saw the vast black shape of
the _Ocean Flyer_ looming up behind it. Then something icy cold and
round was suddenly pressed against the back of his neck, strong arms
pinioned his arms to his sides, and a voice said sternly in English:

“Not so fast there! One outcry and you are a dead man. Where do you
think you are going?”

“Alan!” breathed Buck in relief. “Don’t shoot! It is I--Buck
Stewart--with news of Bob.”

“Hurrah!” cried Alan. “Come along over to the _Flyer_ where Ned is
anxiously waiting. You are back sooner than we expected.”

It did not take Buck long to tell his story.

“Now,” said he, “what’s to be done? We have less than three hours left
to do it if ever we want to see Bob alive again.”

Half a dozen wild plans were suggested and discarded as quickly.
Finally it was resourceful Ned who said:

“Let’s work it this way, boys. You, Buck, will have to go back afoot to
the ruined church where the execution is to be, and wait there until
the firing squad arrives with Bob at sunrise. Hide behind the wall
against which they back him up to be shot, and then, when they are
pacing off the firing distance, jump out, cut his bonds and run around
to the other side of the wall again with him. With a couple of loaded
revolvers in each of your hands and one of you at each end of the wall,
you ought to be able to keep even the dozen soldiers in the guard at
bay until we can arrive.

“We will have the _Flyer_ all ready for instant flight the minute the
squad shows up, and at the first shot, we’ll be on hand. At the rate of
speed we can travel we oughtn’t to be more than a few moments covering
the distance. A couple of hand grenades tossed down among those Germans
ought to send them about their business pretty quickly.

“Of course I know that this is a pretty risky plan, but it’s the best
we have been able to hit upon so far.”

“But won’t those soldiers be able to shoot Buck down before he has time
to free Bob of his bonds?” Alan queried. “Buck can’t be shooting at
them and cutting the rope off Bob’s hands at the same time?”

“No, I don’t think so,” answered Ned. “I believe that it is customary
for only a certain number of guns in a firing squad to be actually
loaded with bullets. Blank cartridges are used in the others, and no
soldier knows just who carries the fatal weapons. This is to keep any
self-respecting man among them from feeling that he is committing
cold-blooded murder by shooting down a prisoner with his hands tied.
Undoubtedly the officer in charge will be loading the guns while poor
Bob is being given a last chance to think it over. That’s the time.”

“You think of every little point, Ned,” cried Buck admiringly. “Of
course I’ll go and do my best to save Bob. As time is slipping away
fast, I’d better set off right now, too. But remember that you are to
show up the minute you hear the first shot fired.”

“Count on that, old boy,” answered both of the others.

Then, with four “six-shooters” weighting down his coat pockets, Buck
Stewart again disappeared into the night.




CHAPTER XIV THE RESCUE


Buck arrived at the ruined church just as the first pallid gray of
morning light was smudging the eastern sky line. The air was cold and
damp. It bit to the bone. Shivering, the reporter drew his coat more
tightly around him, made sure for the eleventh time that his supply of
revolvers was all loaded and in good working order, and then tramped up
and down on that side of the crumbling wall which best sheltered him
from the wind.

The hush of dawn pervaded the entire landscape. Not a single human
being was to be seen.

Gradually the dull light on the horizon spread up into the sky and
widened. It changed color from yellow to pink, and finally the sun rose
through the mist of the deserted fields like a great round globe of
fire.

A quarter of a mile distant the chimes of the cathedral in Muhlbruck
could be faintly heard, calling the people to early mass. Somewhere far
off to the right a cock crew lustily, welcoming the sunlight. Little
birds began to chirp and hop through the grass.

It was the time!

Waiting in that way was unbearable to Buck. The strain on his nerves
drove him nearly frantic. Once more he took out his revolvers for
examination, paced restlessly up and down, up and down, and wished that
they would come.

A distant rumble far down the highway warned him of other travelers. He
crouched down behind the wall, fingering his weapons with heart-strings
taut--waiting, watching.

Finally a vehicle hove in sight, but it was only a farmer’s cart drawn
by two big black dogs, and loaded with vegetables for sale in town. The
blue-smocked peasant striding alongside was whistling a little song,
all unconscious of the grim-faced figure behind the old church.

The cart vanished around a bend in the road towards Muhlbruck. Then all
was silence again. The sun rose higher, dissipating the mist before its
warmth. It was not fully daylight. Then it was that Buck’s straining
ear caught the distant rhythmic footbeats of marching men. It was the
firing squad with Bob.

Tramp, tramp, tramp, tramp!

Around the bend in the road they came, a dozen soldiers whose uniforms
and spiked helmets were a dull gray, like the dust they stirred up
underfoot. They marched in a little column of twos, with a corporal in
command at one side. In their midst was the condemned prisoner.

The watching Buck was moved to great pity at his old friend’s haggard
and unkempt appearance. There were great bluish hollows under his eyes,
his cheeks were unnaturally pale, and the growth of a two-weeks’ beard
made his face almost unrecognizable. But, although he knew that they
were taking him to his death, Bob marched with shoulders squared and
his head thrown back. It would never do for an American to show fear
before foreigners.

“_Zum Recht! Halt!_” (Wheel to the right! Halt!) snapped the corporal.

The firing squad was now on the other side of the wall from Buck,
standing like so many statues, with their rifles stiffly presented.

The corporal grasped Bob roughly by the arm and backed him up against
the wall.

“If you wish to pray, do so now,” he said in German. “Make it brief.”

Bob closed his eyes for a few moments, while he thought of his old
friends away back in New York, wondering what had become of him.

“I am ready, corporal,” said he, shortly.

His hands were bound tightly together behind his back and a bandage
tied over his eyes.

“Pace your distance,” the officer ordered his men.

They retreated for about thirty paces, the corporal counting gruffly:
“Hup! hup! hup!” as they marched.

It was at that instant that Buck Stewart darted around the corner of
the old wall with a sharp knife in his hands. He was at Bob’s side
and in a trice had slashed the rope free of his hands. The blindfold
followed in less time than it takes to tell it.

Just then the firing squad reached their appointed position and wheeled
machine-like about. They saw in a flash their prisoner about to escape.

“Donnerwetter!” roared the corporal, brandishing his sword. “Fire, men!
Shoot them down!”

The roar of a dozen German muskets crashed out just as the boys turned
the corner of the wall. The bullets shattered the masonry in a cloud of
flying debris. Buck shoved two big revolvers into Bob’s hands as they
dashed behind the wall.

“Stand guard there at the other end of the wall, Bob,” he shouted.
“I’ll take care of this end.”

[Illustration: _The Rescue of Bob Russell._]

Then, before the Germans had scarcely recovered from their surprise,
each boy was peppering away at them in deadly fashion from opposite
ends of the protecting masonry. Their first fusillade brought down
three groaning soldiers, one of them the corporal. The rest made for
cover, the nearest shelter--the tumbled masonry of the church itself.

“Spread out on each side of the young devils!” yelled the raging German
corporal from where he lay. “Scatter and surround them! Work up on them
from behind!”

His commands were quickly obeyed, and even such a rapid fire as the
boys were able to pour into the enemy could not prevent three or four
of them from running far around on either side, where, lying flat in
the long weeds, they opened a dangerous flank-fire that immediately
made the wall of no further protection to its gallant defenders.

“It’s all up with us now,” called Bob, as he took another ineffective
shot at one of the sharp-shooters.

“If only the _Ocean Flyer_ would come!” groaned Buck. “I can’t
understand why it hasn’t arrived before this!”

At that moment, as if in answer to his desperate cry, there came the
ominous roar of a powerful motor, high up in the air, and there came
the great airship, swooping down with its seventy-two feet of planes
magnificently outspread, and Alan Hope standing out on the lower
runway, swinging deadly bombs in his hand.

The Germans saw the approach of the strange aircraft at the same
instant, and startled cries of: “_Ein Flieger! Ein Flieger!_” (an
airship) broke from them as they diverted part of their fire upon it.

The _Flyer_ swept on down in gradually narrowing circles and lessened
speed until it hung almost directly over the hard-pressed boys by the
wall. Then a hundred-foot rope ladder, one end of which was attached to
an opened port, was tossed down to them and Alan, making a megaphone of
his hands, shouted:

“Climb up! Quick! There is a whole division of cavalry dashing down the
road!”

Buck caught the loose end of the ladder first, and ran up the tough
spruce rungs like a monkey, despite the sway of the rope supports. Bob
did his best to weight down the end of the ladder with one hand, while
with the other he emptied his remaining pistol at the Germans who now
came at him in a body and on the run. Chips of masonry from the wall
were flying all around his head as the bullets struck it.

Buck reached the top of the ladder and was dragged safely inside
through the porthole, while Bob made a flying leap, caught the fifth
rung and began to climb as fast as he could. German bullets whizzed
past his ears, but fortunately none hit him. As he climbed, he yelled:

“Tell Ned to shoot her on up into the sky! Full speed! I’ll be up there
with you in a minute or two!”

Buck rushed to the engine room, while Alan hurried to tell Ned. The
porthole was left open so that Bob could crawl in. Ned was excited;
with his right hand he jammed the long starting-lever down as far as it
would go; with his left he tugged at the lever of the lateral control
rudder. It stuck. With both hands he gave one desperate pull. The
sudden give, and the quick swerve upward of the _Flyer_ threw him off
his balance. He lunged heavily against the rod. It broke off short in
his hands.

The sudden burst of power shot the big airship suddenly skyward on an
angle of almost eighty degrees and with a suddenness which nearly threw
both Ned and Alan off their feet. The huge propeller began to whirl
with dizzying velocity, and the wind screeched and whined through the
propellers like an animal in pain.

With blanched cheeks both boys bent low over the broken lever, but
though they broke their finger-nails trying to loosen it, they were
unable to pry it up even with such tools as they could lay their hands
on.

Horror showed in each face. With a ghastly attempt at composure Ned
turned to Alan.

“Well, I’ve certainly done it now!” he groaned. “There seems to be no
hope of being able to pry that broken lever up. And I don’t dare to
shut off the speed; no telling what would happen going at this angle.
At present it is driving the _Flyer_ at maximum speed almost straight
upwards into the sky!”

Alan was speechless, and could only gulp; his eyes were bulging in
mortal terror.

At that moment a frantic call came up through the tube from Buck.

“Great heavens, boys!” he screamed, “look down below! There is Bob
clinging sixty feet down the ladder, beaten nearly insensible by the
terrible wind, and unable to climb further because the current is
sweeping that light rope ladder straight out behind us like a ribbon.
If we don’t stop in a minute or so, he is as good as dead!”




CHAPTER XV IN DEADLY PERIL


Here was a condition the boys had never foreseen; they were undoubtedly
“rattled.” At their present high speed the wings were folded in their
utmost. Let the speed be reduced, the planes would automatically
expand; they were headed into the wind--an extra inch of surface to
catch the terrific pressure might cause the _Flyer_ to turn turtle.

The only possibility that remained for those on board to save Bob was
the desperate chance that they might be able to haul the ladder in,
hand over hand, until the boy was near enough to crawl into the hull
himself. None of the boys had much hope of being able to accomplish
the feat, and indeed the first minute of tugging on the rope ladder
convinced them that it was an utter impossibility to haul it in against
the terrific wind current created by the machine.

“No hope!” sighed Buck, wiping the perspiration from his face.

“Wait! I have it! Rig up that windlass in the storeroom. I’ll bet we
can haul him in on that,” exclaimed Alan.

The windlass was brought and the loose end of the ladder finally lashed
to it. The barrel crank of the windlass they attached to one of the
machines in the engine room, and then the previous ladder attachments
were cut loose. Buck started the donkey-engine, and all were delighted
to see that with each chug of the engine another lap of the ladder was
dragged aboard and wound about the windlass.

Buck speeded the little engine up faster and the clinging figure below
rapidly rose from sixty to fifty, to forty, to twenty, to ten, to two
feet of the porthole, when strong, eager arms were outstretched to drag
him aboard. Poor Bob was so numb with cold and so exhausted from the
frightful strain he had undergone, that he collapsed almost as soon as
he found himself in safety.

“Safety” is, however, no word to describe the situation of the
_Flyer’s_ crew. The big airship was shooting on, on, on at an abrupt
angle up into uncharted space, the limits of which are beyond the
deductions or comprehension of science. The highest cloud strata had
been surmounted long since; a strange darkness seemed to close over
them, making it necessary to turn on the electric lights.

The _Ocean Flyer_ was passing into a region of the most intense cold.
First frost appeared on the plate glass of the portholes; then this
rapidly thickened to a thick coating of ice which prevented all view of
the outside. Even the wind funnel device on the _Flyer’s_ prow, which
had in past flights proved practical in keeping the interior heated,
was now inadequate. The ship became so cold that the boys’ breath
steamed; their hands turned blue and their noses reddened. Soon it even
became necessary for them to put on their heaviest underclothing and
fur overcoats. They had to huddle close together for warmth.

The altitude gauge began acting queerly; it had long since passed the
ten-mile mark.

The young aeronauts had the choice of only two expedients in this
desperate emergency. They could keep on going as they were, trusting to
luck; or they might shut off the gas supply and take a chance of having
the _Flyer_ turn on its back. Their chances of coming right-side-up
were better now; there was no air-movement in this high altitude. But
suddenly Buck made a discovery that made a choice unnecessary.

“Look, fellows!” he cried, pointing at the gauge which showed the angle
of flight. “Sure as you live, her nose is dropping every second.”

Ned nodded his head gravely. “I’ve been hoping for that. The air’s
getting too thin to give the rudder enough resistance. Our speed’s
lessening every minute. We’ll soon be on an even keel--and then we at
least stand a chance.”

“Won’t we just drop like a rock?” gasped Alan in dismay.

“Why no. Not if we keep our engines going. We simply won’t gain any
ground. I’ll give you an exhibition of fancy flying about that time.
We’ll try ‘dodging.’”

“Play tag with the clouds?” grinned Buck.

“We’ll play tug-o’-war with our rudder. We’d naturally drop headfirst
without the propellers. We’ll use our power just often enough and
strong enough to keep level. In other words, we’ll jump down.”

“And where will we land?” asked Buck. “We’re headed west, aren’t we?”

“We won’t be in Belgium when we see terra firma, and I wouldn’t be
surprised if we got pretty well across Germany--”

“We can’t land there.”

“Well, we can’t land here, that’s sure. We’ve got to take a chance. Me
to the engines--we start dropping in five minutes.”

The floor of the cabin was nearly level; then it began to rock
violently. From the alternate hum and silence of the engines, the
others knew that Ned had begun the descent. Aside from that, the
airship was as steady as ever.

In the meantime Buck busied himself in the cook’s galley, and
when he finally emerged carrying steaming hot pots of coffee and
savory-smelling victuals, you may well believe that the half frozen
boys greeted him with enthusiasm. They shouted up to Ned through the
speaking-tube:

“Lash the plane gears fast where they are and come on down. Buck’s got
ready a fine lot of stuff for us to eat.”

“You boys go ahead and enjoy it without me for a little while,” Ned
answered from his place in the pilot house. “I’m going to have just one
more try at that broken lever.”




CHAPTER XVI NED SAVES THE “FLYER’S” CREW


Dull despair gripped even the ordinarily cheerful Ned’s heart as he
stared at the broken lever, flush with the metal work around the socket
where it had defied all efforts to pry it up and loose. If only there
were a half inch or so of the lever still projecting above the metal
frame so that one might get a purchase on it with pincers, or--

“Silly that I am!” shouted Ned. “Here we have all been wasting our time
and effort trying to pry the lever up, when we can just as easily rip
off the metal top casing around the socket. That will certainly leave
at least three-quarters of an inch of the lever sticking up where we
can get at it. Boys! Oh, boys! Come here, quick, and bring some screw
drivers, a cold chisel, a hammer, and a pair of good strong plyers with
you!”

The other lads came running with the desired tools and Ned explained
his idea in a few words. All looked at each other sheepishly, but with
vast relief they began at once to carry out Ned’s instructions.

“What ninnies we were not to think of so simple a thing long before
this!” exclaimed Alan.

“I guess it was because the idea was too simple,” Buck said wisely.

Ned cut short further discussion.

“To work! To work, you fellows!” he cried. “Remember that every instant
wasted in chatter carries us so much the nearer to earth where there’s
no telling what may await us.”

So thereupon all of the boys set to work with a will. In their
excitement they forgot the freezing cold and their own discomfort.
While Ned kept the _Flyer_ in its course, Bob and Alan and Buck were
working loose the screws which held the heavy metal top plates in place
and hammering and prying with the razor-edged chisels. It was far from
being easy work, but they made good headway for all that.

Presently Alan gave a triumphant shout and tossed the first dislodged
screw to the floor. Others soon followed it. By that time Buck had cut
free the entire upper plate of metal from the wooden box base on his
side, and Bob had pried it almost as loose on the other side. Soon the
whole thick sheet of metal came loose and could be lifted free of its
pedestal.

As Ned had surmised, its removal left fully three-quarters of an inch
of the broken end of the lever protruding where it was easily possible
to get a grip on it with the heavy plyers.

Getting a firm grip on the shaft and pulling it out were two entirely
different matters, however, as the boys soon found out. For a long time
the jammed lever resisted their every effort to loosen it and faces
again began to look grave. It was not until they were almost ready to
give it up as a hopeless job, that, all of a sudden, Buck, who was
tugging with might and main, felt the lever give slightly. A second
later the whole length slid smoothly up into view.

“Hurrah!” shouted Alan, throwing his cap wildly into the air. “Saved!
saved! Now we can get her under control again and laugh at whoever may
be waiting down there on Mother Earth!”

The boys certainly were justified in performing a war-dance of
jubilation around the walls of the little pilot house.

It only remained for them to repair the broken handle, and then the
_Ocean Flyer_ was once more responsive to the slightest touch of
the hand upon her delicate steering mechanism. Fully two hours had
elapsed; Alan’s watch showed nearly eight o’clock.

As the airship continued to drop, the ice melted on the port windows
and a grateful warmth began to make the blood circulate freely again.
The heavy overcoats were discarded and everybody began talking
excitedly about what they were going to do when they reached the earth
once more. All agreed that, even if it were only for a few minutes,
they wanted to land and feel good solid ground beneath their feet.

“But where do you suppose we’ll strike terra firma?” asked Bob. “It’s
pretty certain that we won’t find ourselves over Belgium as when we
left.”

“What difference does it make anyhow?” exulted Alan. “We’ll be on earth
again, and that’s enough of a guarantee for me just now. I don’t care
whether we land in Germany or Japan.”

“Hold on there! It does make a difference to me though,” cried Buck.
“Remember that the New York _Herald_ really sent yours truly along on
this expedition as a war correspondent, and I haven’t yet had a chance
to write a word of ‘copy’ or even to see a battle in progress. I
didn’t bring along all of those notebooks for nothing, Alan!”

Everybody had to laugh heartily at that. Bob agreed with Buck.

“I’m a newspaper man too, you know,” he said, “and I also would like to
see the actual fighting at close range.”

“Thanks, old man,” rejoined Alan dryly, “but I’ve seen quite enough
fighting lately to last me the rest of my natural life. However, your
words remind me that we haven’t yet heard the story of your experiences
in the war zone, or how it was that the Germans came to arrest you as a
spy. Now that none of us have anything much to do for a while, give us
the yarn, won’t you, Bob?”

Bob nodded, but before he could begin, Buck cried:

“Wait a minute. Let’s all go up to the pilot house where Ned can hear
the story too.”

“That’s only right,” agreed Alan, so the three of them rejoined Ned,
where he sat at the wheel, and Bob Russell related his adventures as
follows.




CHAPTER XVII BOB RUSSELL’S STORY


“Shortly after international war was declared last July, the _Herald_
decided that it needed a personal representative at the front, and I
was selected for the job because I had been over here several times
on pleasure trips before, knew the lie of the land pretty well and
moreover could speak half a dozen languages. As you may guess, I was
mighty proud of being honored by so responsible a position.

“Before leaving I called at the offices of the Universal Transportation
Company to bid Ned and Alan good-bye, but found that they were visiting
their families in Chicago, and so had to leave without seeing them.

“Following instructions, I landed first in England, where I interviewed
both Lord Roberts, commander-in-chief of the British army, and Sir
Edward Grey, the prime minister. At that time no one in London seemed
to be much worried over the war and it was prophesied that the Kaiser
would soon be treating for peace.

“Knowing the truly magnificent organization of the German military
machine as I did, I didn’t think so, and really I don’t believe that
gallant Lord Roberts did either, despite his remarks in our interview.

“I crossed the channel from Dover to Calais on August fifteenth,
shortly after the fall of Liege and while sharp fighting was going on
between the Germans and French in Alsace-Lorraine. Everything was in
confusion. Train service was disrupted, the French army was only half
mobilized yet, the Belgians, despite their wonderful resistance, were
being crushed by the invading Germans on every hand, and the country
people were fleeing in abject terror to get out of harm’s way.

“Contrary to expectations, I found that foreign war correspondents were
not at all welcome and I was subjected to all sorts of petty annoyances
from both civic and military officials. It was then that I began
showing my neutral newspaper credentials less frequently, and tried
wherever possible to pass myself off as a tourist unable to return home.

“The allied French, Belgian and English forces engaged the conquering
German host all along a two hundred and forty-eight mile battle
line on the Alsatian frontier about that time, and the Germans threw
millions of men into Belgium, seeking a shortcut to already terrified
Paris. There were wild rumors afloat that Brussels, the Belgium
capital, would resist German occupation. This promised to be a big
‘story’ for my paper, so I hurried there with what haste I could.

“As you know, however, the terrible fate of other Belgian cities which
had resisted the invaders, had pretty well cowed the citizens, and
Brussels surrendered without a shot being fired. I was there when that
wonderful German army marched in and took possession, and I want to
tell you boys right now that it was the most imposing spectacle I ever
hope to see. The crowds were packed eight and ten deep along all the
principal streets to watch the triumphal entrance. They waited there
anxiously from early morning until two o’clock, when we heard that the
burgomaster had officially turned over the keys of the city to the
advance guard and removed his scarf of office.

“‘They are coming! The Germans are here!’ ran through the tremendous
throngs of citizens.

“On they came, preceded by a scouting party of Uhlans, horse, foot,
artillery and sappers, with siege train complete. There were fully a
hundred armored motor cars on which rapid-firing guns were mounted.
Every regiment and battery was headed by a band.

“Then came the drums and fifes, the blare of brass and hoarse,
lusty-voiced soldiers singing ‘Die Wacht am Rhein’ and ‘Deutschland
Uber Alles.’

“The legions of the war-king of Europe swept down through the ancient
streets of Brussels like a great flood. But the gorgeous garb of the
German army was missing--the cherry-colored and lilac uniforms of
the horsemen, the bright blue of the infantry. All wore greenish,
earth-color gray, which made them less conspicuous for hostile
marksmen. All of the spiked helmets were painted gray. The gun
carriages and even the pontoon bridges were gray.

“To the quick-step rattle of drums, the Germans marched to the city
square. Then at a sharp word of command, the gray-clad ranks, like one
grand machine, broke into the famous stiff-legged ‘goose step,’ while
the simple folk of the town gazed with mouths agape. They did this
after a long, grueling night of continuous marching, when we expected
that they would be staggering with fatigue.

“There were the renowned 26th and 64th regiments, already
battle-scarred veterans. There rode on prancing black horses the famous
Brunswick Death’s Head Hussars, and their comrades on many bloody
fields, the Zeiten Hussars. There the dashing, reckless Uhlan lancers,
some of whom had Belgian officers manacled to their stirrup leathers
and caused a subdued murmur of resentment to run through the crowd.
Instantly the German horsemen backed their steeds into the densely
packed ranks of the spectators, threatening them with uplifted swords
and effectually quelling the outward manifestations of momentary revolt.

“All day long and far into the night that ominous gray column kept
passing through the streets, and it seemed for days afterwards as if
I could still hear the muffled _tramp, tramp, tramp, tramp_, and the
rumble of heavy gun carriages over the cobblestones.

“The difficulties of my position were immensely increased after this,
for the Germans proved very strict about signing passports or letting
noncombatants wander about the country. While I was detained thus in
Brussels, reports came of the fall of Liege, fierce fighting around
Malines and the terrible sacking of Louvain. The German hosts invaded
France, Rheims fell, the French government fled south to Bordeaux, and
it was commonly said that the Germans would eat their Christmas dinner
in Paris.

“As you may guess, I was wild to get nearer the battle front, but no
efforts of mine could persuade or bribe the German officers to let me
accompany the army on the march. About the only news that I could cable
back to the _Herald_ was made up of sketchy little sidelights on how
the Belgians lived under the conquerors, and even those were grossly
edited by the official censor.

“Early in September we heard that the Allies had rallied, however. The
English had imported Sepoys from India, and the French, black men from
Algeria to help them in fighting, and had thrown themselves between
trembling Paris and the advancing Teuton. Then, on the 7th, I think
it was, came news that the German right wing had been checked almost
within cannon shot of the French capital, and that the whole auxiliary
army of the Crown Prince Friedrich Wilhelm had been hurled back by a
masterly flank movement on the part of the French under General Joffre.

“That seemed to be the turning point. Reinforcements were daily
arriving for the Allied army from England and elsewhere; it was
difficult for the hard-pressed Germans to get sufficient supplies so
far from their own boundaries, and, moreover, the Russian hordes had in
the meantime overrun all of East Prussia and had become a dire menace
there. A party of the Army of the West was rushed across Germany to
help General Von Hindenburg resist the Russian assault, and Von Kluck
reluctantly fell back from Paris to the French frontier, fighting
desperately every inch of the way.

“There the most sanguinary battles of the war were fought as the Allies
pressed on after the retreating Germans. All of you boys have read in
the newspapers of the battles of the Meuse, of the Marne, at Mons, and
along that tremendous battle line of the Aisne.

“Those terrible conflicts will go down in history as the most awful of
their kind ever known on earth. The dead filled the trenches and river
bed so deep that they formed a solid footing for their comrades to
fight hand to hand with Englishman, Frenchman, Hindu, Belgian, Algerian
and Lorrainer.

“Winter came with cold, ice, sleet and snow, to intensify the
sufferings of the inadequately protected soldiers. Thousands of wounded
died from exposure on the field where they fell. They fought on the
earth, in tunnels under it, high up in the air, on the sea and under
the sea. They mined the whole North Sea and the English Channel.
Antwerp surrendered and Ghent fell before the Germans.

“And all of that time I was cooped up in one Belgian town or another,
stopped every time I tried to get anywhere near the battle front, with
the _Herald_ cabling me every day or so for some _real_ news--the stuff
that they didn’t get through Associated Press channels--‘copy’ that
would enable them to print something that everybody else didn’t have.

“So finally I grew desperate and determined to get closer to the scene
of actual fighting, at no matter what hazard. Right then my real
troubles began.”




CHAPTER XVIII HOW BOB WAS CAPTURED AS A SPY


“Now,” said Buck with a grin, “we are about to get down to something
that hasn’t been printed forty times in the newspapers.”

Bob could not help getting a little huffy at that.

“You’d be a mighty poor newspaper man,” he said, “if you hadn’t heard
something about all of those things by this time. But of course if you
don’t want to hear the rest of this, why all right.”

“Shut up, Buck,” said Ned, himself smothering a smile, for Bob was
really funny when he flared up in this way. “Go on with your story,
Bob, please. Of course we’re interested. You were just going to tell us
about what really happened when you finally determined to take matters
into your own hands and go to the front, whether the German authorities
wanted you to or not.”

Somewhat mollified, Bob continued his narrative:

“I happened to be in Malines at the time and the point where the
heaviest fighting was going on was in the Yser River district, a
considerable distance to the south. Nothing but military trains were
running between the two points and naturally I wouldn’t have been
permitted to take one of them. My only remaining course was to buy
a horse and to take my chances of getting there alone. It took me
four days to buy that horse and then I had to pay about four times
what he was worth, owing to the fact that the cavalry had long before
appropriated every sound animal in the country.

“This noble charger of mine was wind-broken and wall-eyed, those
probably being the only reasons why he had not been commandeered
previously. He was such an awful looking object that I hated to be seen
riding on him, but beggars can’t be choosers and I had to make the best
of it.

“While staying there in Malines I had struck up quite a friendly
acquaintanceship with several young officers, one of whom--Hoffmansthal
by name--was good enough to volunteer his services in securing a
passport for me from the commandant. There was all sorts of red tape
to be gone through before I finally got it, and when I did I found
out that it was made out in the name of ‘Philip Maestrich, citizen of
Malines, and by trade a silversmith.’ The papers went on to say that
I had been given official permission to travel to Namur, not far from
where the fighting was, to the bedside of my sick wife. My friend,
Lieutenant Hoffmansthal, explained that he could never have got the
passport for me except by this subterfuge.

“So I set out on my wobbly old mare and as far as Corbais all went
well. From there on every patrol guarding the roads stopped me and
acknowledged the passport with extreme ill-grace. I took to avoiding
the main hotels in the towns and slept in all sorts of unpleasant
places--sometimes even under a haystack out in the open fields.

“Near Wasseige I found all of the roads blockaded with reinforcements
marching to the front, and, rather than risk detection by them, I
made a wide détour to the east, turning south again somewhere in the
neighborhood of Villers le Temple. That night a dreadful rainstorm
drove me to take shelter in a peasant’s cottage, and he, while I slept,
galloped on a plough-horse to the nearest German outposts and won a
reward for declaring me a spy.

“I was jerked roughly out of bed by a big, red-bearded Uhlan
captain, my saddlebags were searched and even the linings cut out to
discover the presence of secret papers. There they found my _Herald_
credentials, which said that my name was Robert Russell and not ‘Philip
Maestrich.’ That was enough with the blockhead who had arrested me,
and, all puffed up with his capture, he sent me with a special detail
of men to Combret. Later I was transferred from one camp to another
until a hospital train happened along bound for Muhlbruck. They bundled
me aboard this for trial by ferocious old General Haberkampf, whose
field headquarters were located at our destination.

“Never will I forget the ghastly horrors of that five-hour ride on that
hospital train. The engine barely crawled along, bumping over rails
which the Belgians had torn up in the early days of the war, and which
had subsequently been re-laid by the Germans. Every railway coach was
packed to suffocation with wounded, some of them so frightfully mangled
as to appear scarcely human any longer.

“Groans and piteous cries for water or more air echoed in my ears both
day and night. Each morning we stopped to put out three or four poor
fellows who had died overnight. Some were delirious with pain and would
scream, sing or curse frantically, defying the Red Cross nurses to come
near them. The smell of blood, ether and arnica made the air sickening.
I myself was wholly unnerved by it, but my soldier guards maintained
the appearance of stolid indifference. Perhaps they had become used to
seeing such suffering as that.

“Finally we arrived in Muhlbruck. I was completely fagged out by then,
and really scarcely cared whether they shot me or not. My brain was
numb with the horrors with which I had been surrounded. I couldn’t
think, let alone invent a story that would plausibly account for my
traveling about under an assumed name.

“When they hauled me up before old General Haberkampf, he hardly gave
me a chance to defend myself. He is a soldier of the old, hard school
of the Emperor Wilhelm I--the sort of fellow who makes militarism his
god.

“‘In other words,’ he growled at me, ‘you confess that you are not the
person whose passport you use, and that you have for some time past
been penetrating our lines under false colors. You now say that you are
an American newspaper man, yet you know that war correspondents have
been officially ordered out of the war zone. How do I know but that you
are lying to me as you already have to all of my officers between here
and Malines? You are a spy!’

“I tried to bring him into a reasonable frame of mind, but that is a
hard thing to do with a man whose army is being daily beaten further
back. He would not listen to me.

“Then they took me to a foul prison where I stayed for three weeks
with about fifty other wretched men--some of them Frenchmen who had
been captured in battle; a couple of them peasants who had been caught
looting dead bodies on the battle field; and three or four common
malefactors. We were treated well enough there, but sanitary conditions
were unspeakable, and, really, the news of yesterday that my case was
at last to come up for final decision, struck me as an actual relief.

“Long before this I had given up all hopes of ever escaping and I
expected to be condemned. My trial was a mere form. All the way down
that road to the place of execution this morning I kept thinking about
you boys, wondering what you were doing and if you would have tried to
rescue me had you heard of my plight.

“All of the adventures and happy times we ever had together in the past
recurred to me vividly. Good old pals! How I wanted to see you just
once more before I died!

“When they backed me up against that wall, I closed my eyes, expecting
to hear the death volley ring out at any moment. Then I suddenly felt
something tugging and slashing at my wrists, the hard ropes fell away,
and I turned, half-dazed, to find Buck shoving two big revolvers into
my hands, with word that you other boys were near with the _Flyer_.

“You know the rest of the story, and I can’t say anything more except
that words don’t suffice to express my opinion of the perfectly bully
way you have acted towards me.”

“Land! Land!” shouted Ned just then. “I can see the trees down below!”




CHAPTER XIX A STRANGE COUNTRY


The shout of the lookout on Columbus’ ship when he first sighted the
New World created no greater excitement than did Ned’s words among
the boys on the _Ocean Flyer_. Each and every one of them rushed to
the port windows with binoculars through which to scan the view more
closely.

The scene was, however, most disappointing. As far as the eye could
reach below stretched an expanse of sparsely-wooded uninviting plain,
with white patches of snow still showing upon it. Far off to the
southwest the peaks of a mighty range of rugged mountains loomed
hazily. Not a bird flew in the sky; not a human habitation was to be
seen. Away to the northwest a narrow ribbon of something gray was
twisting slowly across the country. Little points of light flickered
above it where the sunbeams struck.

“What is that?” asked Alan, pointing out the snake-like thing. “Is it a
river?”

“No, I don’t think so,” answered Buck. “Ned, let’s get nearer to that
thing and see just what it is.”

Accordingly the course of the _Flyer_ was altered and, flying at an
elevation of about 1,100 feet above the ground, she rapidly drew near
the mysterious object.

Closer approach gave the boys a genuine surprise. The “snake” proved
to be five battalions of soldiery on the march--infantry, cavalry and
artillery. There seemed to be thousands and thousands of them--more
men than any of the boys had ever seen gathered together before. The
uniforms were of a dark blue. Some of the regiments wore little round
caps of the same color, set rakishly on one side of their heads; others
wore huge flat fur or wool hats. Most of the soldiers seemed to be
unusually large and rough looking. The majority of them were bearded.

“Russians!” exclaimed Bob. “See those flags! Russians on the way to
reinforce either the army invading Austria or their comrades fighting
the Germans in East Prussia is what they are!”

The appearance of the big airship caused the greatest confusion in the
ranks. The cavalry galloped wildly this way and that; infantrymen
broke their regular marching formation to scatter and fire their guns
futilely at it; the cannon were hurriedly unlimbered and efforts made
to elevate their muzzles which would bring the _Flyer_ within range.

The young aeronauts could not help laughing at the disorder their
approach caused, and agreed with Ned that it was better not to get too
close to the Russians. So the airship was raised to a greater altitude
and took a southwesterly course.

“Why this particular direction?” queried Alan. “We have no idea where
we are except that it is Russian territory, which may mean Siberia or
Lapland.”

“Well,” said Ned, “we want to get back to the seat of war, and it’s
a pretty safe bet that those Russians are bound for there by the
shortest possible route. They are headed in a southwesterly direction,
so it stands to reason that if we follow the same course, we’ll arrive
somewhere near their destination.”

This was a logical deduction, so the _Flyer_ was held to that position,
and all sight of the army was soon lost in their rear.

For perhaps three hours the character of the underlying landscape
remained the same as when it first was sighted. After that it gradually
began to vary, assuming a more rolling aspect, with considerable
stretches of forestland. Indications of snow became less frequent;
cultivated fields began to appear here and there, then little villages
and finally a large city. Several towns of considerable size were
passed over, but the airship was flying at too great an altitude for
the boys to see much of them or to locate more exactly where they were.

By this time the sun was sinking, and there was danger of the _Flyer’s_
passing completely over and beyond the “theater of war” in the
darkness. Alan and Bob counseled a descent to earth for the night. This
seemed to be a pretty safe procedure, as the vessel could be got under
way again within a few minutes should any unexpected need arise, and
it would, further, give the weary young aeronauts a chance to stretch
their limbs and inhale some fresh air.

After a short discussion it was decided to do this. Sweeping in a
diminishing spiral downward, the boys sighted a little village nestled
snugly in a valley. The smoke from fires where goodwives were cooking
the evening meal, arose in delicate streams in the calm air. Here and
there a light already twinkled in a cottage window. Peasants were just
driving the lowing cattle home for milking.

“Let’s land over there!” exclaimed Buck. “I’m fairly hungry for the
sight of somebody who won’t shoot before asking who you are, and, aside
from that, I’ll bet that these simple folk would be willing to set us
up a regular homelike meal!”

“How do you know that they won’t shoot at us, Buck?” asked Alan.

“I guess that we’re pretty safe on that score,” Bob broke in. “These
people are evidently honest countrymen who’ll be far more afraid of us
than we need be of them.”

“Yes, and besides,” added Buck, “we can find out from them just where
we are and how near we are to the battle front.”

“That’s a good point,” Ned said, “but they’re probably Russians or
Poles, and they wouldn’t understand what we wanted to know. None of us
speak their outlandish language.”

“I know a little Russian--at least enough for our needs,” volunteered
Bob. “If you boys think that it’s safe to make a landing, I’ll
guarantee to do all interpreting.”

“Fine!” chorused the others, and so the landing was made in the
meadows within a stone’s throw of the first cottages.

There was, of course, immediate excitement throughout the town. The
rusty bell in the steeple of the weather-beaten old church pealed an
alarm, lights were immediately extinguished, and everybody came rushing
out from their house-doors. At sight of the monster airship settling
down there in the pasture with the blood-red rays of the sunset turning
her metal body into the seeming of molten steel, a genuine panic ensued.

The women and children fled within, slamming and barring their
doors behind them. The male villagers hastily caught up the first
objects of defense that came to hand--flails, pitchforks, scythes, an
old-fashioned muzzle-loading musket or two. They huddled together like
so many frightened sheep in front of the town church, uncertain whether
to fly or fight.

“Look!” called Buck. “We’re frightening these poor people to death.
Show a white flag, some of you, and show them that we mean to be
friendly.”

Alan complied by jumping down from the lower runway, waving a flag of
truce, and both Buck and Bob followed him, holding their empty hands
high in the air to show that they were unarmed. The trio walked slowly
straight towards the group of peasants, while Ned remained on one of
the outer galleries of the _Flyer_, rifle in hand, ready to defend them
if need be.

“Don’t be alarmed, good people!” shouted Bob in Russian. “We don’t
intend to harm you. All that we want is a good square meal, a chance to
walk around a bit, and a little information as to our whereabouts.”

Although their suspicions were not altogether allayed, the peasants
showed immediate relief, and three, who seemed to be the ringleaders,
advanced hesitatingly to meet the approaching boys.

“_Gott gruessen Ihr, Gefremde_,” (God bless you, strangers) said one of
them, extending his right hand.

“Holy smoke! Did you hear that, boys? He’s addressing us in _German_,”
cried Bob and Buck together. “This is better than we looked for, but
surely we can’t be back in Germany!”

Everybody shook hands solemnly all around, and Bob explained to the
villagers.

“We are American newspaper men, over here to gather war news and find
photographs for our papers,” said he. “We had an accident yesterday
and lost our way, and now are simply looking for a chance to rest a
little before going on.”

“You are all welcome to do that here,” said the spokesman for the
villagers with true Teutonic hospitality. “We shall be glad to have you
eat with us. In return you can tell us about the great war.”

“We certainly will take you up on that,” cried Buck, and led the way
back to the airship to tell Ned of their cordial reception. All of the
villagers--the women and round-eyed children too--crowded gaping around
the strange aircraft with exclamations of wonder.

“I guess it will be safe for us to leave the _Flyer_ here unguarded,”
said Ned. “These people don’t act as if they would tamper with it, and
I want to get in on those ‘eats’ too. Anyway, we won’t have to go very
far away, and can get back here in a jiffy if we have to.”

All of the boys agreed to this and so it was settled. Before leaving
the ship, to accompany the villagers, they all secretly slipped
revolvers into their coat pockets. As Bob said:

“It’s always better to be on the safe side.”




CHAPTER XX A FIGHT WITH WILD COSSACKS IN POLAND


The leader of the villagers escorted his young guests to the largest
house in the town, where immediate preparations were made for the
finest dinner that German housewives--and there are no better!--could
make. All of the townspeople who could crowd into the room did so, and
both windows and the doorway were jammed with the curious faces of
others who wanted to hear news of the Great War.

There were not stools enough to go around, so they all sat cross-legged
on the floor and talked as they ate.

“First of all,” said Bob, “what is this place called and in what
country is it?”

The question struck the simple villagers as being very funny and they
all laughed uproariously.

“You will have to excuse us,” smiled the spokesman, “but we supposed
that everybody had heard of Kolwinsk, which is the name of our town.
You are now in East Prussia, about twenty miles over the boundary
from Poland, and perhaps thirty or thirty-five miles from where the
nearest fighting is going on. Lying this far to the northwest, we are
out of the line of invasion and so far have been lucky enough to escape
Russian raiding parties about which such terrible stories are told.
They say that the Cossack horsemen have perpetrated the most inhuman
atrocities. No village through which they pass is left unpillaged.
They butcher or torture the aged in cold-blood, dash out the brains of
babies against tree-trunks, and reduce the screaming, helpless women to
worse than shame. If they resist, the Cossacks mutilate them in awful
fashion.”

“Oh, I can hardly believe all that,” interposed Alan. “The Russians are
civilized people.”

“Maybe so,” replied the village head-man with some heat, “but remember
the old saying: ‘Scratch a Russian and you’ll find the Tartar
underneath.’ This war has made brutish beasts of everyone taking part
in it. Also remember that this Russian army is made up not only of
full-blooded Russians, but also of Baltic Province men, Jews from Riga
and Libau, huge, hairy Siberians, barbarous Circassians and Kalmuck
Tartars, who are half Chinese--as mongrel and savage a horde as ever
devastated a Christian country. But, of them all, the wild Cossack from
the steppes is the worst and most to be dreaded. He knows no religion,
no law, no pity, and couples with that a daring which even our own
gallant Uhlans cannot surpass.”

Ned tried to get the German to change the subject, for he was working
himself into a frenzy.

“How has the war progressed here in the east?” he asked. “We Americans,
you know, have been watching the western struggle more closely.”

The village spokesman shrugged his shoulders.

“Here it has been now in favor of the Germans, now with the Russians.
At first General Rennenkampf led millions after millions of his wild
men swarming into Poland. We had too few men on the frontier to
resist and so were beaten back. Then the Kaiser sent us General Von
Hindenburg, a hero who won the Iron Cross for distinguished services
when we captured Paris in the time of the present Emperor’s father.
Von Hindenburg is of the old hard school, but he is a great commander.
He rallied our troops and in turn pressed the Russians back. He lured
Rennenkampf into a trap at Tannenberg and nearly annihilated the whole
Russian army. Then the Grand Duke Nicholas arrived from Petrograd with
millions more Russians. The struggle seesawed back and forth all of the
way from Angerburg to Gumbinnen and between the Warthe and the Vistula.
We lost a big battle before Warsaw in Poland, lost again at Lodz, and
then won on the same battlefield, and again at Lowicz, in which two
engagements we captured over 120,000 prisoners. So it is going on
even now. We are still fighting hand to hand with the Russians around
Warsaw; and Lowicz, which was ours yesterday, may be theirs to-morrow.
Our army is holding eight times their number of Russians in check, and
that’s enough to be proud of.”

“But what about the Austrians? Haven’t they helped any here in
combating the Russian invasion?” asked Bob.

“No, the Austrians have had quite enough to do protecting themselves
at home, and have left Germany to fight the whole world single-handed.
The Austrians invaded Servia six months ago, captured Belgrade, the
capital, and then were driven out of the country altogether. Now the
Serbs and Montenegrins are themselves invading Austria in the south
and east, while the Russians have completely overrun Galicia and
Transylvania. No, Austria has been of no real help to Germany in this
war.

“But you, sir, were going to tell us about what has been going on in
the west. Who is winning there now?”

So Bob and Buck, both of whom spoke German with fair fluency, went on
to outline the operations in France and Belgium. They were still in
the midst of this when all at once there came a noise as if bedlam had
broken loose on the other side of the village.

The thunder of furiously galloping horses filled the air. Then came
fusillade and fusillade of shots and hideous demoniacal yells, with
which were intermingled the shrieks of terrified women and children and
the clang of the alarm bell.

“Help! Help! Ah, help! The Cossacks are upon us!”

Everybody gathered in the big room leaped to their feet. Terror seemed
fairly to paralyze the peasants. Some few seized clubs or knives to
defend themselves, but most ran aimlessly about wringing their hands
and calling upon heaven to save them. Those men having wives and
children at home unprotected, rushed forth into the street directly
into the path of the wild riders from the steppes.

The boys dashed for the door at the first warning, but the raiders were
thundering down the street almost upon them. There were perhaps sixty
Cossacks all told--barbarous looking, swarthy fellows with flying long
black hair and sheepskin jackets. Their beards were a-bristle; their
eyes rolled red and wickedly; they brandished curved Mongolian swords
or shot to right and left with sawed-off carbines pressed against their
thighs. The shaggy, under-sized ponies were as wild-looking as their
worse than savage masters.

Seeing them come galloping pellmell not a stone’s throw away, the
boys dodged inside the house again, barely escaping a random volley
which was fired at the cottage as the horsemen swept past. In a few
minutes they had overrun the whole village, and the horrid noise of the
slaughter was half drowned in shrill, uncouth Siberian yells and the
roar of flames from houses which had been ruthlessly set on fire.

The glare of the burning hut across the street shone weirdly through
the doorway, making the boys’ faces look ghastly. The rolling clouds of
smoke half choked them and smarted their eyes.

“We’ve got to get out of here--_quick_!” gasped Ned. “Those fellows may
discover the _Ocean Flyer_ at any moment, and there’s no telling what
may happen then. Follow me and have your weapons ready!”

Straight out into the street they plunged and found themselves in the
midst of a scene more frightful than words can adequately describe.
Half of the village was already ablaze, the thatched roofs of the
cottages spurting yellow flames high up into the air and giving off an
intolerable heat. The scene was almost as light as day. Silhouetted
against the lurid glare, wild Cossacks were cutting down the
fear-crazed peasants.

One fleeing woman with a babe in her arms was caught by her unbound
hair and dragged screaming to her knees. As her frantic husband leaped
at her assailant, the Cossack shot him deliberately through the
heart. The dead lay fallen in grotesque postures half out of doorways
or huddled bleeding on the street. Here and there a wounded man was
crawling away to die in the fields.

Crack! Crack! Crack! sounded the revolvers of the intrepid boys as they
charged down the street. Shot for shot answered them from the surprised
marauders, who had not expected quarry like this. They leaped upon
their prancing ponies again and tried to ride down these determined
opponents, but, sheltered behind a yet unburnt hut, the boys met them
with so withering a fire that they galloped on past.

“Run!” yelled Buck. “It’s our only chance!”

The boys did. It was heart-breaking work, but they arrived unwounded at
the side of the _Flyer_. As they bounded up the hanging rope-ladder,
their pursuers galloped madly up behind them. Shots rattled against the
metal hull of the airship like hail against a window-pane, and half a
dozen wild fellows tried to follow their escaping prey up the ladder
before it could be drawn in.

It was a matter of seconds, but just in time the ladder was jerked out
of the reach of clutching hands.

“All ready there, Mr. Engineer,” shouted Buck from up above the pilot
room.

Buck made a dash for his post, the current was turned on, and in
a minute more the _Flyer_ was soaring high above the scene of the
massacre.




CHAPTER XXI INSIDE OF BESIEGED PRZEMYSL


“The fiends!” exclaimed Alan, staring horrified down upon the heap of
blazing ruins which so short a time before had been happy, peaceful
homes. “It would be only right if we were to drop a few lyddite bombs
down upon them!”

“No,” said Bob, “we mustn’t do that, because we would be almost certain
to blow up a good many of those poor German villagers along with the
guilty Cossacks.”

“I don’t believe that there are any Germans left alive there,” grumbled
Alan.

“Nevertheless, we shouldn’t bombard the Russians,” interposed Ned.
“Remember, Alan, that we aren’t in Europe either to fight or take sides
in any way, unless we absolutely have to in order to protect our own
lives. The United States is a neutral country, and we must do nothing
which might later imperil that neutrality. I know that it’s hard to
spare such wretches as those we have just escaped, but we ought to do
it.”

“Ned is right,” chimed in both Bob and Buck, so Alan had to forego the
bomb-dropping, richly as the Cossacks deserved it.

“Well, where to now?” asked Ned, when the _Flyer_ had continued on her
course in a westerly direction for about ten minutes. “Shall we head
for Russian Poland and see what General Von Hindenburg is doing towards
capturing Warsaw?”

“Don’t go there because you may think that I want to,” replied Bob.
“I’m sick of the way they fight here on the eastern frontier. They may
kill more men in Belgium with their big cannon, but at least they do it
in a soldierly fashion.”

“I’d rather go somewhere else too,” said Alan. “How about a flight to
Asia Minor? I read in the papers just before we left America that the
Allied fleets were knocking the Turkish forts on the Dardanelles to
pieces with thirteen-inch guns. That might be an interesting sight.”

“No, let’s not go there,” Bob objected. “Let poor little Turkey die
alone. She had no business getting mixed up in this war in the first
place. We’ll pass up the scrap there and the Japanese assault on
Tsing-Tau. As far as I’m concerned there’s only one place more I’d
like to see before we start for New York again, and that is Przemysl.

“You know that it is one of the great strategic fortifications in
Galicia, and was the first real stumbling-block in the way of the
Russian invasion of Austria-Hungary. When the Austrian army was crushed
at Jaroslaw and retreated in disorder to protect Budapest, they asked
for volunteers to garrison Przemysl. It was pointed out at that time
that the town and fortress would surely be besieged, and that there was
very little hope of any Austrians remaining ever escaping with his
life. The orders were to hold out at no matter what sacrifices.

“Volunteers came forward a plenty. Then millions of Russians poured
down around the city. These burned the town, shelled the citadel and
tried actual assault. All in vain! So the Russians left three army
corps of men besieging the fortress and marched on to the conquest of
Hungary. Those besiegers are still camped around the brave fellows in
Przemysl. Six months and more of famine rations, terrible disease and
unceasing bombardment have not quenched their determination to hold out
until the last man drops.

“Now, don’t you boys agree with me that a visit to Przemysl ought to
prove worth while?”

“Przemysl it is then,” cried Ned. “You’re a wonderful speech-maker,
Bob.”

“Quit your kidding,” grinned the newspaper man. “Also, if you really
want to reach Przemysl, I’d advise you to ship our course more to the
southeast.”

“Aye, aye, sir!” grinned Ned, with a mock-serious salute. “Sou’ by
sou’east it is, sir!”

“Humph!” grunted Bob. “I hope that Buck Stewart has our breakfast
ready.”

The jagged summits of the Carpathians--mountains more rugged and
awe-inspiring than those of Switzerland itself--scalloped the southern
horizon and seemed to overshadow the countryside for leagues, when Ned
announced from the pilot-room that Przemysl was in sight.

For an hour past they had been traversing a region of wild grandeur,
where broad rivers rushed tumbling and foaming down from the rocky
heights, where wild sheep browsed on lonely hillsides and where the
binoculars showed natives as fantastically garbed as the bandit chorus
of a popular musical comedy.

They had seen whole brigades of Russians on the march, plodding
sullenly along like slaves under the driver’s whip. They had seen
signal fires leap flaming from hill crest to mountain crag. They
had seen a flotilla of Russian barges being poled down the broad,
glistening waters of the Vistula, an ugly, snub-nosed cannon on every
boat. They had seen the remnants of a once natty Austrian regiment
being hunted down and shot like rabbits by mounted Cossacks. All this
they had seen and much more.

Away off to the west the dull rumble and muttering of heavy cannonading
vibrated through the air. That was the battle of Cracow in progress,
although the boys did not know it then.

Death and devastation was everywhere. Smouldering villages with
unburied bodies among the embers lay in the track of each army, whether
Serb, Russian or Austrian.

“Przemysl is directly ahead!” called Ned down through the speaking
tube, and the _Ocean Flyer_ began to plane slowly towards it.

The shell-battered citadel stood upon a little rise of ground with the
ashes and fire-charred walls of what had been the flourishing town
surrounding it. The tattered red, white and green flag of the dual
empire still flapped defiantly upon the walls. All around the fortress,
for miles and miles, stretched the vast encampment of the great horde
of Russian besiegers.

They had dug a zigzag line of shallow trenches as close to the walls
as they dared, and sharp-shooters lay flat on their stomachs in these,
watching for an incautious head above the battlements. Every now and
then a little puff of bluish smoke somewhere along the line showed the
alertness of the marksmen.

Some distance farther back three batteries of artillery had been
planted behind earthworks and these every now and then belched forth
fire, shaking the ground as their shells went hurtling towards the
obstinate defenders.

As always before, the appearance of the _Ocean Flyer_ created an
instantaneous disturbance among all who saw it. Aerial guns were
trained upon it from both the fortress and the Russian lines, and
several smaller military aeroplanes shot bird-like into the sky to
reconnoitre it.

The first of these rose directly from Przemysl itself and Alan signaled
to it from one of the _Flyer’s_ outside runways by waving a white flag.
The Austrian aviator swung near enough for Bob to explain that their
mission was peaceful and that they wanted to alight inside the walls.

“Wait until I report concerning you,” called back the Austrian.

He volplaned down into the city and returned with the message that the
_Flyer_ would be permitted to descend.

It seemed as if every man in the garrison not on guard duty gathered
to see the big airship as it settled down upon the parade ground, and
the commandant himself was there to meet his unusual visitors. After
learning their identity, he greeted the boys cordially, but said:

“I confess that I am disappointed too, because the general outline
of your vessel suggested to me that it might be a new form of German
dirigible, come with news of a relief army on the way. You have heard,
of course, of the great fleet of Zeppelins which they are getting ready
for the aerial invasion of England?”

“We have heard rumors of something like that,” answered Alan, “but were
inclined to believe that it was all just a bugaboo to frighten London.”

“Oh, no! Not at all,” the commandant assured him warmly. “You will see
in the course of the next few weeks. Yes, and England shall see too!”

After that the young aeronauts were shown over the fortress, which
really was a small town in itself. Many of the buildings had been set
afire or demolished by bursting shells, but a corps of engineers was
kept ready at all times to repair damages as fast as they were made.

Food supplies had run short some time before and the garrison was then
reduced to starvation rations, consisting of a little soup with a few
crumbs of black bread and, twice a week, a bit of tinned meats. Horses
and even rats had been eaten with relish. The soldiers presented a
pathetic but inspiring spectacle. The hospitals were crowded with sick
and wounded; the walls were gradually crumbling under incessant shell
fire, yet that garrison of heroes remained undaunted.

It was as Buck said, “just as if they had been Americans.”




CHAPTER XXII THE BOYS PERFORM AN ACT OF MERCY


The Austrian commandant’s story of the frightful privations which his
garrison had undergone, stirred all four of the boys deeply. Buck took
Ned to one side and said:

“Did you note all of the awful things that the governor there says
these poor chaps have had to eat?”

“Yes.”

“Well, what do you say to inviting him on the sly to have one little
square meal with us aboard the _Flyer_ before we leave? Just leave it
to me to make it a Jim dandy! I’d like to feed the whole lot of them if
only we had the victuals.”

“Let’s ask the commandant if he will accept,” said Ned, brightening.

The Austrian listened gravely to their well-meant offer, but the boys
could feel him stiffening.

“You forget, gentlemen, that whatever hardships the soldier of the dual
monarchy may have to suffer, his officers are proud to endure with
him. I thank you for your courtesy, but cannot honorably accept it.”

Many pitiful sights were seen by the Airship Boys on their tour of the
fortress, but none impressed them more deeply than that of a young man
in one of the hospital wards. He was wasted to mere skin and bones with
fever which flamed insanely in his eyes. His feet they had swathed
in great layers of bandages, at the ends of which wooden splints
protruded. All the time in his delirium he would keep whispering in the
most heart-rending accents:

“Ah, Liebchen, dich kann ich nicht mehr gruessen!”

“What is that he keeps saying?” asked Alan of their guide.

“He is speaking of his young bride in Vienna--bemoaning the fact
that he may never see her again. Lieutenant Racoszky here came of
a comparatively poor middle-class family but fell in love with the
heiress of Count Polnychek, one of the most influential noblemen of
Budapest, and the head of one of the oldest families in Hungary. The
girl was a reigning beauty of the fashionable set, but that did not
keep her from falling in love with Racoszky here. He was handsome,
gay, dashing, in those days before the war. So they were married
secretly.

“By and by the old Count found out about it and would not permit
Racoszky to see his girl-wife any more. Then she eloped one night and
they fled together. They settled in a little town not far from Budapest
and were happy. And one day she told Racoszky that she was about to
bear him a child.

“That was one week after war had been declared. Already the Serbs were
across our borders and Montenegro was daily threatening to join them.
The war office was in a panic. All available troops were rushed to the
southern frontier, where we were defeated badly. A second army was sent
and it too met with reverses. Then the Russians began to cross our
northeastern frontier by the millions. Every able-bodied man in the
land was drafted.

“Racoszky here hoped to escape until after his child was born, but
that he was not permitted to do. It was the hard-hearted old count,
her father, who himself told the recruiting officers that Racoszky was
a coward and was trying to avoid his duty. So one day they came and
seized him in the market place as he was coming out of the doctor’s
office.

“‘Come with us. You are called to the colors!’ they told him sternly.

“Racoszky was desperate. He tried to plead off.

“‘Good sirs,’ he pleaded, ‘I am but now come to hasten a doctor to the
bedside of my wife. See, he is running there now. Let me at least wait
until the crisis is past.’

“‘No!’ growled the recruiting sergeant roughly. ‘We have heard all
about you and your trickiness. Come along now before we make you.’

“Then Racoszky became like a madman. He tried to break away from them
and run back to his suffering wife. All in vain. They clubbed him
insensible with their pistol butts, handcuffed him and took him away to
Koloszvar, where the regiments were forming. For whole weeks thereafter
he remained like one distraught. It was then that I first met him and
learned the story. Finally a sort of dreadful calm came over him. He no
longer raved nor wept nor tried to escape. His face lost all expression
and he went methodically about his work like a person in a trance.

“Word had come that his old enemy, the count, had gone for his daughter
and taken her away with him down the Danube to Vienna. All of the idle
rich fled there when they saw there was really danger that the invading
foe might overrun all Hungary.

“Poor Racoszky never has heard from his girl-wife since then. He never
spoke of her to any of us until the delirium of this fever began to
rack him. He became a terrible fighter. His ferocity in hand-to-hand
combats with the Russians was appalling even to us who fought shoulder
to shoulder with him. He was that way at Slovno, on the blood-soaked
field of Lemberg, at Doukle in Galicia, where our great retreat first
began.

“Then we came here to Przemysl, and Racoszky was among the first to
volunteer to be one of the garrison which everybody agreed was doomed
to certain death. I said to him at that time:

“‘Racoszky, my friend, why do you not go on with the main army? They
are falling back upon Vienna, and there maybe you might see your
cherished wife again.’

“He gave me so terrible a look that I never have dared mention the
subject to him again.

“After that the army marched away and left us to our fate. Then came
the Russian hordes, until the whole plain was black with them. They
assaulted, they bombarded, they dug mines, and blood ran as freely
as water. We beat them back. So then they camped all around us here
like so many of their own Siberian wolves, waiting until the poor dog
dropped from hunger and they could rend him limb from limb.

“We of the garrison all suffered cheerfully together. There was very
little grumbling. The commandant’s hair turned white when we served up
the roast flesh of his favorite charger as a delicacy on his birthday.

“Two weeks ago it seemed as if we all were about to starve at last.
Only our spirits remained strong. Racoszky came forward and volunteered
to lead a sortie out into the enemy’s camp if twenty men would follow
him. He promised to bring back food, and did, but he came back with his
legs riddled with bullets. All but two of them who accompanied him fell
somewhere outside there.

“Long before this we had run out of all adequate medical supplies. Our
surgeons could not probe Racoszky’s legs properly to remove but one of
the three bullets which had lodged there. They wanted to amputate, but
he swore that he would kill himself if they did. So there he has lain
ever since, poor fellow, with his wounds festering, and blood poison
getting more assured every day. Always he keeps moaning in that way for
his girl-bride and the baby he has never seen.”

This touching story moved all of the boys profoundly and weighed on
their spirits to such an extent that Alan finally said:

“What do you fellows say to playing the Good Samaritan and taking
Lieutenant Racoszky out of here in the _Flyer_ to some place where he
can get the medical attention that his bravery deserves?”

“That’s just what I was thinking,” answered Bob.

“And I,” echoed Buck. “But where shall we take him?”

Ned spoke up.

“Why not to Vienna, the capital? The very best hospitals and surgeons
in the country are there and--so are his wife and baby. The sight of
them would undoubtedly do him as much good as all of the expert medical
attention he would receive.”

“The very thing! A great idea!” exclaimed the other boys. “But what
about that crabbed old count, her father! Do you think that he will
relent enough to permit Racoszky to see his daughter?”

“That,” said Ned briefly, “is up to us and can, I think, be managed.
Anyway, it certainly is worth the trial. Now let’s go to the commandant
and see if he will permit us to remove the lieutenant.”

The governor, they found, was only too pleased to afford his faithful
officer this unexpected chance of recovery, and helped remove the
invalid to a soft bed they had made ready in the airship’s spare
stateroom.

“By nightfall we shall have him in competent hands there in Vienna,”
said Ned, already at the wheel.

“Good luck and tell them there in the capital that Przemysl still holds
out,” called the commandant.

“No fear that we won’t do that!” the boys cried, and, amid the
increasing whir and roar of the powerful propellers, the _Ocean Flyer_
once more swept up into the sky and out over the great plain where the
Russian encampment lay.

Buck threw a large, black, pear-shaped object overboard and down at the
crowd below waving good-byes.

“Great heavens, what was that? A bomb?” exclaimed Bob, startled.

“No,” Buck replied solemnly, “that was a smoked ham--our last one,
too.”




CHAPTER XXIII STRANGE SIGHTS IN VIENNA


The course of the _Flyer_ to the Austro-Hungarian capital was
southeasterly, and it was already dusk by the time the vicinity was
reached. Had it only been lighter the boys might have been treated to a
magnificent view of the outlying ranges of the Alps directly in front
of them, with the ancient historic city lying there below on the right
bank of the lordly Danube.

Their approach had, however, been seen, and long before they reached
the city ten or twelve military aeroplanes were hovering excitedly
about them. According to directions given by the commandant at
Przemysl, the boys hung out two flags--one German, the other
Austrian--and, encouraged by the sight of these, one aviator more
daring than his comrades, planed up parallel with them, shouting in
German:

“Who are you, aeronauts?”

Bob answered him from one of the outer runways.

“Friends from Przemysl with a wounded soldier,” he shouted through a
megaphone. “We want to alight in the city as near the largest hospital
as possible. Will you show us the way?”

“What is the code word?” questioned the circling Austrian aviator,
still suspicious.

“The Double-headed Eagle and a Third Crown,” replied Bob, as instructed
by the governor.

This apparently satisfied the airman, who at once passed the word to
his flying companions and the whole crowd of aircraft descended upon
the city like a flock of sparrows settling down upon a telegraph wire.
The Austrian flyers guided the _Ocean Flyer’s_ direction of descent.

A landing was successfully accomplished in the Prater, which is a vast
expanse of wood and park on the east side of the city between the river
Danube and the Danube “canal.” Here in former times the fashionable and
the blue-blooded rolled in stately carriages along the Haupt-Allee, and
the light-hearted, pleasure-loving middle-classes whiled away their
time boisterously in the Wurstel Prater.

Now all was very different though. This plaisance of indolent fashion
was changed to a military aviation field. Flimsily constructed plank
hangars dotted the terraces all around the celebrated Rotunda, and
wireless apparatus towered gaunt and skeleton-like into the air.
High-powered automobiles, driven with reckless speed, were rushing
between there and the city across the canal.

It is hardly necessary to relate here the astonishment and curiosity
of the Austrian aviators over the _Ocean Flyer_ as it finally alighted
in their midst. Alan was selected to remain in charge of it, while the
three other boys and the wounded Racoszky were whirled rapidly into
Vienna in one of the waiting automobiles. On the way Bob told the two
officers who accompanied them the pathetic story of the invalid, and
they were at once all sympathy for him.

“Since the old count is the sort of man you say he is, you will
probably find him to-morrow dawdling in the ‘Inner City’ where the
palaces are, or else driving here along the Ringstrasse,” said one of
the officers. “You may not believe it, sir, but practically no steps
have been taken to fortify Vienna here against capture. The military
aviation corps is supposed to guard aerial approach, and nobody save
the good old Emperor seems to take other dangers seriously.

“Our nobility is too pleasure-loving, too loath to acknowledge
responsibility. To-day, with all of our outside territory in the throes
of a death struggle, with three nations across our borders, and with
the ugly rumble of national revolution, the fashionables still parade
grandly about, affecting to ignore conditions. Last week there were
bread riots and the scum of the city’s alleys and back streets sacked
shops throughout the Leopoldstadt district. It took two regiments of
soldiers to drive them back. Conspiracy is rank around us; pestilence
stalks abroad through the byways. I hear that Bohemia is already in
revolt. No one knows what terrible disaster will come in the next news
from the front.

“The aged Emperor can do nothing but sit there in the Hofburg, while
his peers, fled here in terror from all other parts of the kingdom,
spend their time in the gambling casinos, dance as if frenzied in the
_Zinspaeleste_ or, believing the end of the world at hand, are lost to
religion, morality and the commonest decencies of mankind in debauching
there in the Tabarin and vice-sinks like it.

“All day long they ride in landaus with silk parasols, lap-dogs and
frippery, where cavalry divisions should be maneuvering. Silk hats are
seen where helmets ought to gleam. The cane is more widely flourished
here than the sword! But ‘drink and be merry, for to-morrow we die.’”

As the indignant officer paused in his tirade, the automobile wheeled
into the Alsergrund district and in a few seconds more was at the foot
of the great flight of gray stone stairs leading up to the official
military hospital.

“We want to get a light, airy, private room for Lieutenant Racoszky,”
Ned explained to the tired, white-uniformed attendant who met them.

He shook his head wearily, shrugged his shoulders and replied patiently:

“That is what they all say. Each day I hear it hundreds of times--as if
there were room in all of the Alsergrund for half the sick in Vienna!
Is this one of the plague-ridden too?”

Finally, however, accommodations were found for poor Racoszky, and
the boys left, promising to return on the morrow. The officers then
escorted them to their military headquarters, where their story had to
be retold before they were given the liberty of the city. They told too
of the gallant defenders in Przemysl and evoked loud cheers from all
who heard them.

“Ah!” exclaimed one old soldier, “would that I were there to die a
hero’s death with them, rather than standing guard over this madhouse
here!”

Inasmuch as the night was still young, the boys decided to look about
the city a bit before returning to Alan and the _Flyer_ out in the
Prater. In a rented taxicab they toured the city and found conditions
much as they had been described to them. All of the street lamps,
cafes, dance halls and places of amusement were ablaze with light and
thronged with patrons as if on a gala night. The dreamy strains of a
Strauss or Gungel waltz were weirdly intermingled with the barbaric
staccato of banjorines thrumming the latest tango.

The shocked and astounded boys sat for a few moments in the gallery
surrounding one of the huge dance pavilions where hilarity was at its
height. The babel of incongruous noises beat all around them, but every
now and then during a momentary lull in the clamor, they were conscious
of a subdued conversation going on at an adjacent table.

The four men who sat there were neither noisy nor bent on amusement.
That was plain. One was of gigantic physique and wore a huge black,
bristly beard. One was short and unwholesomely fat. He had pouches
under his wicked little pig’s eyes and his skin was blotchy. On his
one hand three rings set with magnificent jewels sparkled. The third
man was evidently from a different social class, for his hands were
stubby, with black-rimmed finger nails and a loose, brutal mouth. The
fourth man at the table sat with his back to the boys and wore a cape
pulled high up so as almost completely to muffle his face. They all
were leaning with heads close together over the table, scarcely having
tasted the wine in their glasses.

Ned, who sat nearest to them, at one time heard the little fat man with
the rings, saying:

“... best done as you say. To-morrow night I know from His Excellency
the Grand Chancellor that A Certain Distinguished Personage will remove
for the week-end to the imperial chateau of Schoenbrunn. That is only
fifty-five minutes run by motor car from the Hofburg and certainly we
can----”

The blare of music beneath the gallery as the giddy dance resumed,
drowned his further utterance. By and by, though, Ned again caught a
disjointed phrase or two:

“... only a guard of ten Hussars ... servants in the chateau all
bribed. We’re sure of them ... he sleeps ordinarily in that suite in
the southwest wing, easily reached by a ladder against the wall.... No!
no! Don’t use your knife, Ottaker, you fool! He is so old and feeble
that a good minute’s grip on his windpipe will finish him!”

“And the Lerchenfeld cathedral chimes will go ‘_Ding, dong, ding! Ding,
dong, ding!_ Franz Joseph dead! Franz Joseph----’”

Both the fat little man and he of the enveloping cape swung quickly
around and eyed the near-by boys sharply. Ned met their scrutiny
innocently enough.

The iron jaw and full eyes of the man in the cloak impressed themselves
indelibly upon his memory.

“Huh!” grunted the fat man, as he turned, back to his companions.

“They don’t matter--only young boys--maybe tourists caught over here by
the war!”

Ned furtively motioned Bob Russell closer to him.

“Bob,” he whispered, “those men are talking in French, although they
are every one Austrians, and I can understand them.”

“Well, what of it?” asked Bob, puzzled.

“Just this!” breathed Ned. “They are plotting to assassinate the
Emperor to-morrow night!”




CHAPTER XXIV ON THE TRAIL OF THE CONSPIRATORS


The effect of this announcement upon the boys was of course electrical.

“Quick!” whispered Buck to his companions, “let’s get right out of here
and call the police. We’ll nab the scoundrels as they try to leave.”

“No, sit still, Buck,” Ned said in an equally cautious tone. “The
arrest of these four conspirators wouldn’t necessarily stamp out the
plot. For as bold and big a scheme as this, there must also be a good
many others implicated. It may be more important to capture them than
these fellows. Besides, even if we were to call in the police and have
these four arrested, we couldn’t actually prove anything against them.”

“True enough,” agreed Bob. “What do you propose to do, Ned?”

“This: I’ll sit quietly here. You and Buck get up leisurely, bid me
good night and appear to leave. Instead of that, each of you secrete
himself somewhere near the bottom of the stairs leading up to this
gallery. When the men here get up to leave, I’ll follow the man with
the cape muffled around his face, and you boys each take one of the
others.”

“But there are four of them and only three of us,” objected Buck.

“That’s all right. I don’t think that the shabby man with the dirty
finger nails is anything more than a mere tool anyhow, so we can afford
to let him go. You, Bob, shadow the little fat man with the rings, you,
Buck, trail the fellow with the big black beard. Follow them around all
night if necessary, but make sure that you trace them to their homes
finally. We can all meet with Alan at the _Ocean Flyer_ over in the
Prater at, say, sunrise by the latest.”

This scheme struck the other boys as feasible and soon Bob and Buck
drifted off as arranged, leaving Ned alone at the table. He had sat
there, seemingly half asleep, for perhaps ten minutes more, when the
four conspirators arose from their table together and started down the
stairs. Ned followed slyly at a safe distance, screened by the jostling
crowd.

All four men passed out of the place in company, chatted for a minute
or two at the street entrance and then parted. The ruffianly looking
individual plunged straightway into the nearest alley, after a furtive
look behind him. The pudgy man with the wicked pig’s eyes and bejeweled
rings took a taxicab at the curb stall and chugged away, followed
by Bob in a second taxi. The herculean black-beard, after leisurely
lighting a cigar, walked aimlessly a little way down the thoroughfare;
paused and felt of his hip pocket as if to make sure that something
quite important was still there; and at last he too hailed a taxicab
and disappeared, with Buck still in his wake.

The fourth conspirator--he who kept his face so carefully concealed in
the collar of his cape--stood thoughtfully in the lighted doorway of
the dance hall until all of his companions were gone. Then he glanced
with affected nonchalance at the faces in the crowd around him and
turning, strolled slowly westward along the street. Ned followed.

At the second square the man suddenly quickened his pace until it was
all that Ned could do to keep up with him. At the fifth square, he all
at once wheeled about abruptly and stared after him; then plunged into
an ill-lighted side street. By the time that Ned got to the corner, the
quarry was just turning the next corner, running at top speed.

Ned sprinted after him, turned the corner and found himself again
on a brightly-lighted thoroughfare thronged with revelers. The man
had vanished into the crowd. Bitter disappointment choked Ned until
suddenly he saw his man again, this time on the opposite side of the
street, hesitating as if at a loss which way to go. Finally he again
turned westward, with Ned keeping closer on his heels this time.

Thus the pursuit went on for more than an hour’s time. Had not the
boy been himself a good walker, the man would soon have tired him
out. The chase ended at last in what your Viennese calls “Die Innere
Stadt,” (The Inner Town) which lies in the heart of the city and is the
most aristocratic section. The Hofburg, or Imperial Palace is there,
the palaces of many of the nobility, the government offices, the now
abandoned foreign legations, the opera house and principal hotels.

The man in the cloak strode swiftly past the hotel section into the
palatial residence district. He now had the manner of one who knew
exactly where he was going and was in a hurry to get there.

At the gates of a great iron fence enclosing the park-like grounds of
one of the palatial residences with which the street was lined, the
stranger paused, then entered without a glance behind him. Ned followed
him swiftly up the gravel walk, to drop flat behind a spreading
rosebush as his quarry wheeled like a flash and stood stock still,
staring intently back at the street.

For a few moments the boy dared scarcely to breathe. Then, to his
relief, the man again turned, but instead of mounting the imposing
flight of stone steps, flanked by two carved lions bearing an armorial
crest in their mouths, he slipped a key into a little half-concealed
postern door and vanished inside, leaving the door slightly ajar behind
him.

Ned hesitated but an instant, then himself plunged into the yawning
black hole. It was so dark that he had to grope his way forward with
hands outstretched in front of him, shuffling his feet along, one after
the other. Scarcely had he gone three steps forward when two muscular
hands closed around his throat from behind, half strangling him, and a
heavy voice boomed through the narrow confines of the entry:

“Ho! Emil, Oscar, Friedrich! This way! Hurry! I have caught a burglar!”

Ned’s sight began to blur. There was a loud buzzing in his ears and
sparks of red, vivid blue and yellow light danced before his eyes. He
was helpless in the iron clutch of the man behind him. Then came the
heavy sound of running feet and three husky servants in livery arrived
and overpowered him. One tripped him flat on his face, while the others
bound his arms immovably to his sides with a piece of rope. They mauled
him about and gave him a couple of kicks for good measure.

“Bring him up here,” commanded the master of the house abruptly,
leading the way up a narrow little flight of stairs.

As Ned stumbled upward, pushed by the excited serving-men, he saw for
the first time that a very comely young woman was standing at the head
of the staircase, with a loose dressing gown thrown around her, just as
if she had been frightened from her bed by the noise of the scuffle and
shouts below stairs.

“What are you doing here, Marya?” demanded the mysterious man in the
cape in what seemed to Ned to be an unjustifiably gruff tone. “Why
aren’t you in bed where you belong at this hour?”

The girl’s hands were pressed to her heart, but she was making a brave
effort to conceal her agitation.

“Oh, I thought--I hoped that--father?” This last in piteous appeal.

The man in the cloak scowled savagely and shoved her aside, while he
and his men pushed Ned into a large, sumptuously furnished room.

“I know what you thought well enough,” he growled. “You thought that
Racoszky, that scoundrelly husband of yours, had come and tried to see
you secretly. That’s what you thought! Well, you are a fool and, though
I’m ashamed to say it, a daughter of mine at the same time. Look at
him as much as you want, Marya! You see that this doesn’t happen to be
your husband. Instead, he is a rascally fellow who--you can go now,
men!” The servitors went out silently. “Instead of that, he is a fellow
who has been dogging my footsteps for the last hour or so and whom I
trapped at the foot of the stairs there just to find out who he was and
why he has followed me in this way.”

Ned did not quail before the menace in his captor’s eye. Instead it is
to be doubted if he even had heard his last words. One poignant thought
was ringing through his head:

Marya? The man in the cloak whom he knew to be a conspirator was her
father and he had called her the wife of Lieutenant Racoszky.

Then this would-be assassin was none other than old Count Polnychek of
Budapest!




CHAPTER XXV THE BOYS GET WORRIED OVER NED


It was about half-past eleven when Alan, nervously pacing the outside
runways of the _Ocean Flyer_ there on the Prater, heard Buck Stewart’s
welcome voice greet him cheerily from the darkness.

“Are the others back here yet?” asked the reporter.

“What! Aren’t they with you?” exclaimed Alan, peering through the
gloom. “Where on earth have you fellows been all night? I got as
nervous as a girl thinking that something might have happened to you.”

“Well,” drawled Buck, enjoying Alan’s impatient curiosity, “we did bump
into a little adventure.”

Then he went on to give Alan the details of their chance discovery of
the plot to assassinate the aged Emperor Franz Joseph on the following
evening.

“Bob followed one man, Ned another, and I the third--a gigantic chap
who could almost pulverize me with a single blow. I followed him about
for an hour or more, going to first one low dive and then to another,
but always in the poorer, more squalid sections of the city where there
were few street lamps and where the second stories of ramshackle old
houses nearly met overhead. The smells were awful, and every street
corner had its individual knot of evil-looking loafers being harangued
by wild-eyed, long-haired chaps, looking as if they would cut one’s
throat for a nickel. Each demagogue was working his little gang of
listeners up to a point of frenzy. Some of the orators were preaching
socialism, others a reversion to pious living. Some waved their arms
in an impassioned plea for absolute anarchy; still others stood on
old soap boxes, with thin lips that alternately sneered or snarled,
preaching atheism, revolution, murder.

“You may well believe that I wasn’t at all at ease passing through
throngs of that sort all the while and having to stop every now and
then because Black-beard’s taxi did, while he leaned out of the
window to note the attitude of the rabble. Once in a while he would
be recognized by persons loitering in the street-corner aggregations.
Several times men sidled slyly up to his taxicab and seemed to be
making reports or getting fresh instructions from him.

“I followed my man around that way for more than two hours without
anything in particular happening, and finally trailed him to bed at a
middle-class boarding house in the Neyban district. Then I came on back
here.”

The last words were hardly out of his mouth before Bob Russell joined
them, his manner triumphant.

“Hello, boys!” cried he. “I don’t know what luck you may have had, but
I ran my little fat man to ground and have found out enough about him
to hang him higher than Haman.”

“Tell us about it,” both boys said.

Bob continued:

“It turned out that the man I followed was so eminent a dignitary of
the realm that I myself now can hardly believe it to be true. The chase
in the taxicab led me straight into the ‘Inner Town’ and to the very
steps of the Hofburg itself. My man paid off his chauffeur and went
on up the grand stairway with all the assurance of proprietorship.
Liveried lackeys saluted him respectfully on all sides, but the
gorgeously uniformed guards at the entrance stopped me when I tried to
follow him.

“‘It’s all right, my man,’ I tried to explain, in my best Austrian, ‘I
am with--’ pointing after the vanishing figure--‘him.’

“The guardsman raised his eyebrows in polite disbelief.

“‘But His Excellency the Chancellor did not tell us that you were
accompanying him.’

“‘_His Excellency the Chancellor?_’ I nearly fell over backwards when I
heard that this arch-conspirator was _he_. Then in reckless spirit of
bravado and with a fine assumption of haughtiness, I said:

“Go ask him. Bring him back here, and mind that you do not keep me
waiting long either!”

“Impressed by my tone, one of the guardsmen went in after my quarry,
who came back with a face that was like a mask.

“‘You wished to see me, sir?’ he queried, taking me in from head to
foot at a single glance.

“‘No,’ said I, ‘you forget that I am with you.’

“‘Ah!’ said he, without exhibiting the slightest interest. ‘I have
indeed forgotten. Will you not enter with me? His Imperial Highness is
waiting now.’

“‘No, I must leave you now,’ I told him. ‘We shall see the Emperor
again _to-morrow night_, I think.’

“For a brief second his brows knit in a puzzled frown. Then his face
cleared and he bowed very graciously.

“‘Until then, good friend,’ he murmured.

“‘Until then, your Excellency,’ I parroted and, turning, descended the
steps with all of the dignity that I could muster. So here I am again.”

“Well, of all the unmitigated nerve!” Alan burst forth. “Now I see how
it is that you newspaper men get your ‘stories.’ It’s a wonder that
he didn’t either have you kicked downstairs or thrown into prison on
general principles!”

“He was suspicious all right,” grinned Bob, who was highly pleased with
himself, “but he didn’t dare risk forcing my hand too strongly there
with all of the servants standing about. Believe me, though, I’ve given
him something to think about!”

“I can’t understand why Ned doesn’t show up,” broke in Bob. “It’s past
sunrise now. What can be delaying him?”

The anxiety in Bob’s tone was reflected in the faces of the other two
boys.

The hours dragged slowly by. Broad daylight came and wore on to noon.
Still no sign of Ned. Late afternoon found his chums pacing restlessly
up and down the area about the _Ocean Flyer_. No one of them dared
voice his fears to the others. The sun’s rays became more slanting; the
shadows longer and heavier. And still no Ned.

       *       *       *       *       *

The man with the cloak, Count Polnychek, whirled his captive around
facing him with a heavy grip on his shoulder.

“So?” cried he, “I know you now! You sat with two others at an
adjacent table there in the _tanzenhaus_! You are a spy then? You were
eavesdropping on our conversation. Did it interest you so much that you
were constrained to follow me all this distance?”

“It interested me,” said Ned shortly, meeting his glare coolly, eye to
eye. His calmness enraged the old count still more.

“And what did you hear, you snake?” he growled, stepping closer and
thrusting his bearded face close to that of the undaunted boy. “Quick
now! Tell me what you overheard!”

“It would be no news to you, Count Polnychek, of Budapest,” said Ned.

“Donnerwetter! You even know my name then! You show your teeth to me,
do you? Are you aware that your life is wholly at my mercy?”

Ned disdained to answer him.

“Will you tell me how much you know?”

Silence.

“Marya!”

The distracted girl jumped with fright at the explosive force of the
command.

“Marya, heat your poker in the flames of the fireplace and then bring
it here to me!”

“Oh, father--dear father, no! no! no! Not that! You wouldn’t torture
this poor boy?” she pleaded.

The old wretch snarled savagely at her as he ripped open the bosom of
Ned’s shirt, showing the soft, white skin underneath.

“Did you hear me, Marya!”

Trembling violently, the girl did his bidding. Shortly the white-hot
iron was glowing in his threatening hand. He held it so close to Ned’s
shrinking flesh that the heat it gave off was almost intolerable.

“Now will you tell?”

The boy shut his eyes and with gritted teeth awaited the scorching
touch upon his chest. But it never came. A harsh voice that one would
never have recognized as that of the girl who a few minutes before had
cowered in terror, said:

“Father, throw up your hands, or, as there is a hereafter, I will shoot
you with your own revolver!”

Marya Racoszky stood with one arm steadily pointing a huge revolver at
her parent’s head.

“Drop that poker!”

He did so. The iron fell into the thick woof of the carpet, sizzling
and causing a vile odor.

Still covering the astounded old wretch with her weapon, the girl
sidled over to Ned and slashed the rope from off his arms with a
penknife. Instantly she shoved the revolver into the boy’s hands and
collapsed swooning into the nearest chair. Ned kicked the smoking poker
over into the fireplace. A grim smile edged his lips.

“Now will _you_ tell _me_ the things that you know are planned for
to-morrow night out at the Schoenbrunn chateau where Franz Joseph will
spend the night?” he asked sternly.

“_No!_ Shoot if you wish, but I never desert my comrades. I am a man of
honor.”

“‘A man of _honor_?’ You, who in cold blood contemplate the
assassination of your sovereign--a poor old man, already shattered in
health and spirit over the miseries of his country? You are a disgrace
to the ancient name you bear!”

Old Count Polnychek winced under the scathing scorn in the boy’s voice.
The red blood suffused his deeply lined face.

“You would not dare insult me in this way were I not unarmed and at
your mercy.”

“How about when you threatened to scar me with that hot poker? Count,
you are--_keep away from that bell or I fire!_--are going to do my will
this time. Let us sit down while you tell me all about it.”

“_Tausend Teufeln_, no!”

“I said _sit_!”

The Count plumped down abjectly into the depths of a big easy chair.
Ned likewise seated himself, with the ugly-looking revolver still ready.

“Now, Count,” said he evenly.

“N--no!”

“Now!”

Old Count Polnychek shrank before the rising black muzzle not two yards
away.

“Well, a curtained limousine is to call here for me at ten to-night.
The chauffeur understands that he is to drive me to Spvodka, ten
minutes’ walk from the chateau where the Emperor is to sleep. All ten
of us who head the plot are to meet there at eleven. Then we are to
...”




CHAPTER XXVI AN ATTEMPT TO ASSASSINATE THE EMPEROR


Alan, Bob and Buck were nearly frantic with worry over the
still-missing Ned by the time darkness closed in.

“If any harm has come to that boy,” vowed Buck fiercely, “I swear that
I’ll leave no stone unturned until I find out the guilty parties and
punish them!”

Bob bit his lip gloomily.

“We’re all hoping for the best, of course,” said he, “and really I
believe that Ned can take care of himself all right.”

“A knife in the back--a blow from a dark doorway as he passed--any of a
score of possibilities here,” muttered Buck.

Alan shuddered and made a desperate effort to change the conversation.

“What are we going to do to frustrate this plot on the Emperor’s life!”
he asked. “If we do anything on that, it must be pretty soon, because
time is flying, and I recall that Ned overheard them say at that other
table that the meeting hour had been set for eleven o’clock.”

“That’s right,” chorused the other boys. “We mustn’t let our anxiety
for Ned permit us to neglect the other thing. How shall we go about it?”

They missed their chum’s ready foresight in planning a course of action
then, but, on the whole, did succeed in mapping out a pretty fair
course of procedure. It was Bob Russell’s idea. He said:

“Ned stated that some of the servants in the chateau had been bribed
into sympathy with the conspirators and will admit them secretly into
the house. The man with the big black beard and he of the twisted mouth
were to slip into the sleeping Emperor’s bedchamber through a window
reached by a ladder against the wall. The Emperor was to be strangled.

“Now what I suggest is that we use the _Ocean Flyer_ to get there.
Landing some distance away so as not to be heard from the chateau, we
can then lie in wait hidden by the lawn shrubbery until the miscreants
arrive. We can then pounce upon them and nip the murder right in the
bud.”

“Would it not be better first to warn the inmates of the chateau of
what is afoot?” asked Alan.

“No, that wouldn’t do at all, because neither we nor the Emperor know
which of the attendants are faithful and which are treacherous. We’ll
have to play this game single-handed, boys.”

So finally it was agreed to adopt the scheme as originally suggested by
Bob. Their preparations for departure at that hour of the night were
noted with great curiosity by the other aviators from the Austrian
hangars, and Capt. von Schleinitz, the young officer who had driven to
the hospital with them and told them about local conditions when they
first arrived, said casually:

“You choose a peculiar hour for starting off again, gentlemen.”

“Yes,” Bob answered him, “we are only going on a small flight. Mr.
Napier is not returned yet, so we will, of course, be back for him.”

“How I wish that I might be privileged to accompany you on one of your
flights!”

Alan and Buck overheard his remark, and after excusing themselves for
the seeming discourtesy, took Bob aside.

“Listen, Bob,” Alan whispered. “Why not take Captain von Schleinitz
along with us on to-night’s expedition. He impresses me as a brave,
good fellow, and the presence of a regular Austrian army officer
aboard might prove of great help in several ways. Patrolling military
aeroplanes might stop us with all sorts of questions once we get into
the air.”

“I guess you’re right, Alan,” said Bob thoughtfully. “Let’s take him
into our confidence then and explain the whole matter.”

This was accordingly done. The Austrian was horrified by the revelation
of the plot and urged all possible haste. By ten-thirty the _Flyer’s_
engines were started and the short flight to Schoenbrunn was begun.
No lights were shown aboard as the boys were anxious to avoid all
unwelcome attentions.

No attempt was made to hinder their progress, and a landing was made
almost noiselessly not far from the enclosed gardens of the chateau.

No one of the boys was willing to be left behind in charge of the
airship while the others went forward into the adventure, yet it
was imperative that someone should stay. After considerable heated
discussion it was finally decided to draw lots. This method determined
upon Buck as the one to remain behind, which he submitted to with much
disappointment.

Alan, Bob and Captain von Schleinitz gripped his hand hard in a last
good-bye, and slipped stealthily away into the darkness. Buck was left
alone.

There was no moon visible that night. The sky lowered with the threat
of storm, streamers of clouds scudded as if frightened before the
strong wind. In a near-by marsh the frogs and crickets made melancholy
music. Afar off to the right somewhere a dog howled mournfully.

       *       *       *       *       *

Nine cloak-shrouded figures stood in close conference at the Spvodka
turnpike, a bare ten minutes’ walk from the Chateau Schoenbrunn. Their
manner was mysterious, sinister. They were impatiently waiting for
someone.

Far down the road the purr of a motor could be heard, growing rapidly
lower. Suddenly it ceased altogether and a tenth sepulchral figure
stalked towards them through the gloom.

A subdued murmur of satisfaction greeted his approach.

“At last you are here, Count Polnych--”

A quick hand was clapped over the mouth of the big black-bearded man
who spoke.

“Hush, you fool! No names here!”

The newcomer did not address the others, but with a finger to his lips
enjoining silence, he led them towards where the high walls enclosing
the grounds of the Chateau Schoenbrunn loomed up through the darkness.

Tiptoeing close to the huge iron gates, the leader of the band shoved
gently. The ponderous gate swung inwards upon hinges that had been
freshly greased to preclude all danger of squeaking. Just inside the
gates a sentry lay securely bound and gagged on the damp grass. The
chateau servants had earned their blood money.

Alan, Bob and von Schleinitz were crouched behind the thick shrubbery
so near that they could have reached out and touched the stealthy
intruders. Revolvers were held ready for instant use.

“Look!” whispered Bob. “The huge bearded man there is the one whom Buck
trailed down. There is the thug with the twisted mouth. That fat little
man shivering in the wind is the Grand Chancellor and--yes, by Jove!
That fellow there who seems to be giving them directions is the very
man whom Ned set out to follow. If he is here, where is poor Ned?”

The tall man whom the conspirators had addressed as “count” did very
little talking. At a signal from him, Black-beard and Twisted Mouth
slipped away around the corner of the chateau, and the remainder of the
band slunk noiselessly over the grass to where the silent black pile of
the building showed through the trees.

Alan, Bob and von Schleinitz skulked close at their heels, dodging from
bush to tree-trunk, to shrub. It was harrowing work.

Once a stone crunched under Bob’s foot as he darted across a gravel
path.

“What was that?”

The group of conspirators had whirled about in consternation, weapons
shining dully in their hands. Only a deathly stillness rewarded their
listening, however. Finally the little fat man, who was chancellor of
the realm, laughed nervously.

“Bah! It was nothing! We are unstrung to-night,” he said in a low tone.
“But to-morrow--”

Evil anticipation lit up the faces of his companions.

“Ready now!” whispered he whom they had called “count.”

The ten of them slipped through the unlocked door into the house where
the aged Emperor slept all unconscious of the hands at his throat.




CHAPTER XXVII THE MAN IN THE CLOAK SURPRISES EVERYBODY


Franz Joseph, the aged Emperor of Austria-Hungary--whose life history
is one of the most tragic of all contemporary royalty--tossed uneasily
as he slumbered on the great four-posted bed, around which heavy damask
curtains had been drawn, shutting off all view of the bed chamber. The
Emperor had fled here to his Chateau Schoenbrunn for at least a day or
so of quiet and ease from the heavy cares of state.

“Go, your Imperial Highness, and sleep in peace,” his trusted friend
the Grand Chancellor had told him. “For the time being I will take the
burden from your shoulders.”

“There are couriers waiting there in the ante-room, from Plotz
and the army at Lublin. There is a messenger from the routed army
before Belgrade. There is yet another ultimatum from Bulgaria to be
considered,” said the aged monarch doubtfully, passing a listless hand
across his careworn brow.

“Highness, cannot I attend to all that?”

The Emperor, broken in spirit and body, acquiesced weakly.

“_Rest!_” he murmured, as if invoking a saint, “undisturbed slumbers
and a few hours in which to forget a bleeding, beaten nation that cries
out for the help I cannot give.”

Thus it was that Franz Joseph came to go to Schoenbrunn, but
forgetfulness did not come to him with the darkening of the lights
around his bed. The whole sad picture of his reign passed in review
before him like a horrid nightmare--murdered relatives, degenerate
heirs who had disgraced his name, and, finally, apparitions of
the Archduke Franz Ferdinand and the Duchess of Hohenberg, whose
assassination by Serbs at Sarajevo had been used as the excuse for the
war now convulsing the world.

There stood the ghastly shades of the Emperor’s dearly beloved son and
his wife whom Franz Joseph never would recognize. They extended bloody,
mutilated hands to the old man and seemed to say:

“See, we are come to take you with us to where countless thousands of
our countrymen lately have gone. Come, Franz Joseph!”

With a strangling cry of terror, the aged Emperor awoke and half
started up in his bed. At that instant there came quick, catlike
footfalls in the outer rooms, a gurgling shout that ended in a groan
from the halberdiers who kept watch by the door, and then the heavy
curtains screening the bed were wrenched violently aside and a terrible
figure towered over the palsied Emperor.

It was Black-beard, his huge, knotty hands working spasmodically as if
already strangling the poor old man in imagination. Behind him appeared
the villainous visage of the Twisted Mouth. A knife in his hand was
stained red to the hilt with the life-blood of the door guard whom they
had caught unawares. Behind the pair the window was open and the upper
rungs of a ladder showed above the sill.

Fate was upon him. The Emperor knew that, and in that crucial moment
when his life seemed worth but a farthing, the noble bearing of his
forbears came suddenly to him, straightening the bowed shoulders,
throwing back the bent head and putting the truly regal blaze of eleven
generations of Hapsburgs into his watery eyes.

“Dogs! what do you here in our presence unannounced?” Franz Joseph
thundered, and even the pajamas covering his wasted form did not
detract from the impressiveness of his mien. “Begone!”

The Emperor pointed one long forefinger from the wretches to the door.

Neither assassin vouchsafed a word in reply. Black-beard crouched to
hurl himself upon his defenseless victim when--

_Crash!_ the whip-like report of a revolver sounded from the doorway
and through the drifting smoke the figure of him they had called the
“count” was visible.

“Perdition!” groaned Black-beard, half-rising from the floor. “You have
killed me, Polnychek!”

Twisted Mouth had dodged in amazed terror behind the table, whence he
now flourished his knife uncertainly.

Pandemonium had broken loose below stairs. Cries of alarm, screams,
curses, stentorian commands mingled with a thunderous fusillade of
shots. The staircase resounded with the rush of many feet upon it. The
treacherous Grand Chancellor burst wildly into the room. He took in the
scene with one sweeping glance.

“What is the meaning of this, Polnychek?” he cried threateningly. “Are
you playing us false?”

In answer, the “count” dramatically threw aside the familiar cape and
hat which had up to this time concealed his face. A ferocious curse
burst from the astounded Chancellor.

[Illustration: _The Mysterious Man in the Cloak._]

Instead of facing Count Polnychek, he was confronted by the glinting
muzzle of a revolver in the hands of _Ned Napier_!

What followed thereafter happened far more swiftly than it can be told.
Seeing the entire plot crumbling about him, and lacking the moral
courage to fight it out, the Chancellor sprang to an open window and
cast himself headlong down into space. They later found him lying with
his neck broken in the gardens. Twisted Mouth threw up his hands and
surrendered as Ned advanced upon him.

Meanwhile the sound of Ned’s shot had awakened the entire household
downstairs. Weapons were quickly seized and haste was made to secure
the safety of the Emperor. The faithless servants were among the
loudest in proclaiming their horror of the attempted assassination.

Alan, Bob and Captain von Schleinitz had attacked the nine conspirators
skulking down stairs the moment Ned’s shot rang out, and, although the
trapped men fought with unparalleled ferocity, they were driven
at bay against one wall of the building and forced to yield to their
intrepid assailants who were by then reinforced by thirty or more
domestics and imperial guardsmen.

Owing to the already disturbed conditions in Vienna it was the
Emperor’s wish that all news of this dastardly attempt on his life be
kept absolutely secret. He rode back along the Ring Strasse, the main
boulevard encircling the city, in state the next morning and made it a
point to rise up and bow frequently in acknowledgment of the cheering
sidewalk crowds. This effectually counteracted any premature stories
of his death which might have been circulated in preparation for the
plotted revolution.

The Airship Boys were given a formal audience in his private reception
chamber of the Hofburg on the following afternoon and Captain von
Schleinitz also was ordered to be present. The grateful emperor
conferred the Order of St. Stepan upon his faithful officer and
promoted him to the rank of lieutenant colonel of the Imperial Aviation
Corps. To the smiling boys Franz Joseph said:

“It is a matter of difficulty for me to decide how best to acknowledge
my life-long indebtedness to you young gentlemen. The fact that you
are not of the nobility nor yet soldiers precludes my decorating you
with any of the Orders of Merit in my power. So, gentlemen, I am going
to leave it for you yourselves to say how I best may please you.”

Of course all of the boys blushed and were much embarrassed by such a
gracious reception. None of them knew exactly what to say until Buck
blurted out:

“Why, we wouldn’t think of taking any rewards ourselves for a thing
that it was our plain duty to do, sir, but we have a favor that we’d
like to ask for a friend who, by the way, happens to be a subject of
yours.”

“Your request is already granted--even though the man be one of those
implicated in the conspiracy,” said the Emperor kindly.

“While we were in Przemysl,” continued Buck, “we met an infantry
officer, one Lieutenant Racoszky, who lay dying in the hospital for
lack of proper attention to his wounds. He is one of your most devoted
subjects.”

Then Buck went on to tell how the lieutenant had married above his
station in life and of his subsequent misfortunes as a result of the
old count’s brutal enmity.

“We want you to intercede with the count on Racoszky’s behalf and bring
the young couple and their child together again,” Buck concluded.

“Mr. Stewart hasn’t told you the entire story yet, though,” Ned here
interrupted. “It seems that Count Polnychek was one of the moving
spirits in this plot. While trailing him down, I fell into his power
and probably would have been murdered had it not been for his brave
daughter, Racoszky’s wife, who forced him at a revolver’s muzzle to
liberate me.

“Armed with the weapon she had given me, I forced him to reveal the
full details of the conspiracy and now have him bound and locked there
in his daughter’s room. She agreed to stand guard over him while I
impersonated him at the conspirators’ rendezvous. The lady has asked
that I beg leniency for her parent in view of her own great services on
your behalf.”

The Emperor paced the room thoughtfully for a few moments. Then he said:

“Young gentlemen, you shall have both of your wishes. Lieutenant
Racoszky need no longer dread separation from his family, and Count
Polnychek shall not be accorded the sentence he so richly deserves. But
he must leave Austria at once, and the first time that he ever again
sets foot across our boundaries shall be the signal for his arrest.”

Thus the happiness of Racoszky was assured and the boys were left once
more free to pursue their way.




CHAPTER XXVIII SURROUNDED BY GERMAN ZEPPELINS


The war had by this time begun to pall upon the boys, and Alan voiced
the sentiments of all four when he said:

“I’m sick of all this treachery, thunder of cannon, wails from the
wretched common people and indiscriminate bloodshed. The United States
is good enough for yours truly, and I wish that I was there right now.”

So it was decided that the _Ocean Flyer_ be headed homeward without
further delay and, after bidding good-bye to the genial von Schleinitz
and Racoszky and his courageous little wife, the boys early one morning
started their engines and let the hectic life of Vienna sink into a
miniature panorama far beneath them.

The course was set northwesterly and a spanking breeze in a murky sky
accelerated their speed.

“Off for America again at last!” shouted Bob jubilantly, and the other
boys echoed him in three rousing cheers.

By ten o’clock, however, there was a marked change in the atmosphere.
The barometer fell low in the glass, and every delicate instrument in
the pilot room gave ominous indications of nasty weather.

Ned’s face showed his worry, but he forced a cheerful smile before his
chums.

“It will blow over, I am sure,” he said.

The _Flyer_ was being held to an elevation of perhaps 2,500 feet. The
lower cloud banks cut off all view of the world beneath, and Alan
suggested that they descend to a lower level where, although they
might feel the effects of the rainstorm from the clouds, the rapidly
increasing velocity of the wind would not hold them so surely in its
grip.

Ned listened to the demoniacal shrieks of the wind as the _Flyer_
scudded along, and was not slow to acknowledge the common sense of
Alan’s advice. So the airship was dropped down to a considerably lower
level below the clouds.

In that region a terrible storm was raging. The thunder burst in
crashes that seemed louder than ten thousand cannon. The air vibrated
with the shocks. Appalling zigzags of lightning shot yellow across the
sky. The rain fell in torrents from an inky sky and dashed dismally
against the metal sides of the speeding airship.

Being mistrustful of air eddies or whirlpool currents as a result of
the hurricane, Ned reduced the _Flyer’s_ speed to the minimum. As he
wisely observed, “No use taking unnecessary chances.”

Thus the big vessel fled before the storm for half an hour or more
when, with astonishing suddenness, the reverberations of thunder ceased
and the sun turned the rainfall into a fog so dense that it seemed that
the _Flyer_ was cutting its way through a solid substance. It became so
dark inside that the boys had to turn on the electric lights.

“I don’t like this at all,” muttered Ned at last, as he strained his
eyes through the mist-clouded observation-port.

“Well, anyway, we aren’t flying low enough to hit any trees or church
steeples,” grinned Bob.

“No, but all the same I don’t like to keep going even this slowly
through vapor as thick as this is. If I could only see the character of
the ground below, I’d try to make a landing.”

The earth, however, continued wholly shrouded and Ned had to hold on
his unwilling way.

It was perhaps a quarter of an hour later that Buck, who had been
calculating at the speedometer, and referring to various charts,
announced that the _Ocean Flyer_ was probably over northern Germany.
Shortly afterward the increasing strength of the sun’s rays began to
dissipate the fog, which assumed fantastic forms that writhed and
squirmed as they floated away into nothingness. It amused the boys to
pick out these patches of mist and to note their outline resemblance to
one animal or another.

“There’s a cow!” laughed Bob, pointing.

“And over there is a giraffe--see his long neck?”

“Look straight ahead, boys, and see the bologna sausage,” called Ned
from his station at the wheel.

Sure enough--there it was, gigantic and dull gray, directly ahead
of them. But strange to say, while it kept moving along in the same
direction as the _Flyer_, it did not soon dissolve into thin air.
Instead of that it took vast tangible form. Other vapor forms began
to appear transparent beside it. The vague outlines of complicated
rigging extending down from the sausage became easily apparent. Then a
suspended metal body, punctured with many windows, appeared.

By this time the speeding _Ocean Flyer_ was almost upon it, and only
Ned’s presence of mind in veering the huge right side planes abruptly
averted a sure collision. The _Flyer_ swept down past the other huge
voyager of the sky at an acute angle and did not right itself until a
considerable distance below.

“Holy smoke!” gasped Bob. “What is that curious looking thing?”

Ned was deadly pale, but his lips were pressed grimly together.

“That, boys,” said he, “is one of the famous German armored Zeppelins.
Look up there to the left--three more of them sailing close together.
See over there to the right--two more of them. I can see more flitting
along down below us, and I think that there are more ahead. We have
descended into the very midst of them. Look out for trouble now,
because I’ll bet dollars to doughnuts that this is the long-dreaded
aerial raid upon England!”




CHAPTER XXIX THE BATTLE ABOVE THE CLOUDS


Almost before the words had passed Ned’s lips, an ugly black muzzle was
protruded from a window in the hanging body of the nearest Zeppelin.
Then came a puff of bluish smoke, a dull roar and flash of flame:

BZZ--Zz--z--z--z--z--z--z....

A huge shell had passed athwart the _Ocean Flyer’s_ bows in stern
warning for her to stop and await inspection.

Perspiration started out profusely on the boys’ foreheads. The huge
German war balloons were approaching in a rapidly narrowing circle.
There were at least fifty of them, and soon an advance patrol of
military “Taube” aeroplanes came skimming back to support them. Cannon
were shoved menacingly out of a score of portholes. There was no
mistaking the determination of the Germans.

“Heavens!” groaned Alan, his cheeks blanched. “What shall we do? If we
don’t stop in a minute, they’ll all get our range and blow even our
stout magnalium covering to bits. We haven’t a single weapon on board
that can compare with those heavy cannon!”

“Don’t surrender unless there is absolutely nothing else for us to do,”
cried Buck.

Bob added: “No, because then they’d simply lock us up in some German
prison and use the _Flyer_ for their raid on England!”

The two nearest Zeppelins could now be seen letting gas out of their
huge sausage-like bags as they settled down towards the almost
stationary airship. As they changed position, it left a narrow break in
the ring of enemies.

“Shall we risk a chance on breaking through there? That’s our only
hope,” said Ned quietly.

“Yes, yes. Quick--full power ahead before they think to close the gap!”

Ned jammed the acceleration lever hard down in its socket; the
machinery groaned with the pressure of too suddenly added power; the
exterior planes folded automatically before the rapidly increasing rush
of air. The _Ocean Flyer_ swept upwards at an abrupt angle, heading
straight for the only opening left unguarded.

Simultaneously the Zeppelin crews saw the boys’ desperate intent. Flame
belched from twenty cannon mouths. Shells burst screaming all around.
Four light aeroplanes skimmed like swallows up and over to cover the
gap in the ring. The two huge Zeppelins bearing down upon the Flyer
from above converged and charged her, head on.

“There’s only one thing for us to do,” groaned Ned, “and that is to
ram them. We can do it, but it means that the Zeppelins we hit will be
destroyed and with them I don’t know how many men. Those craft carry a
crew of forty or more, you know.”

“I hate to think of it too, but they themselves have made it our lives
or theirs!” yelled Alan. “So go to it, Ned.”

The _Ocean Flyer_ had now attained an incredible velocity. It was only
a matter of minutes, of seconds, or instants, before it would crash
straight into the huge but clumsier enemy advancing to meet it. There
was a bare glimpse of drawn, panic-stricken faces crowding the hanging
compartment. The pointed snout of the _Flyer_ tilted suddenly at an
eighty-degree angle and--

_B o o m--m--m--psthsh--sh--sh--ss!_

She had struck and pierced the huge gas bag of the Zeppelin, leaving
a huge, gaping rent from which the gas rushed as the craft sagged
sidewise more and more. Several of the heavy cables supporting the car
from the bag parted with reports like shell explosions. The Zeppelin
began slowly to sink, while her sister craft sheered off from the
rushing destroyer.

Wild-eyed and remorseful for the awful necessity of their deed, the
boys now saw the light aeroplanes darting up to block their path. The
futility of their trying to stop an airship when a Zeppelin twenty
times their size had failed, did not seem to occur to those daring
German aviators.

They sat braced there in their narrow seats among the intricacy of
wire rigging, guiding their frail craft with one hand and shooting
rapidly with the other. Rifle and revolver bullets rattled against the
_Flyer’s_ magnalium sides like hailstones.

The rush of wind set in lateral motion by the velocity of the huge
airship nearly capsized two of the little craft. The planes of a third
one were brushed roughly by the _Flyer_ as it rushed past.

The sun had now dissipated the last of the mist and the shapes of the
other Zeppelins could plainly be seen sailing down upon their prey. The
whole sky seemed to be full of them. No wonder England was terrified
by such a menace as this!

The _Ocean Flyer_ now had, however, a clear field in front of her and
the situation resolved itself into a race to get out of range. Here
was where the tremendous motive power of the airship stood her in good
stead. No Zeppelin could maintain such a terrific speed as Ned set.

The guns of the Zeppelins roared almost continuously, but a moving
target is hard to hit. Most of the deadly shells either fell short or
went wide of their mark. One by one the huge “bologna sausages” began
to drop behind and abandon the pursuit. Finally there were only two
left--one a quarter of a mile in the rear and the other hanging almost
stationary to the left of the _Flyer’s_ course. The last Zeppelin had
evidently been foremost of the raiding squadron.

“Good-bye, old chaps,” Bob yelled mockingly, just as the Zeppelin to
the left let fire a broadside with every one of her seven cannon. The
“kick” of the discharge caused her to careen backward amid clouds of
powder smoke.

Shells droned gruesomely past the speeding _Flyer_--overhead, beneath,
on both sides.

A rending thud that hurled the airship on her beam ends ... the
splintering crash of wood and metal ... frenzied cries for help from
Buck down in the engine room. A perceptible “missing” of the engines
and an alarming tilt to one side.

The _Ocean Flyer_ had been hit!




CHAPTER XXX THE MOST TERRIBLE ACCIDENT OF ALL


“What in goodness’ name is the matter down there? Where did that shell
strike us?” shouted Ned, anxiously, through the speaking tube, while
both Alan and Bob tumbled downstairs in answer to Buck’s frantic appeal
from the engine room.

“Put on every ounce of pressure you can,” they signalled up to the
boy in the pilot room presently. He did so, and for a bit the _Flyer_
showed a spurt of her old speed, leaving the Zeppelin a dwindling
speck in the distance. Within twenty minutes, however, despite the
application of every power appliance in the equipment, the speed again
began to diminish until the airship was not making more than fifteen
miles an hour.

As the velocity gradually decreased, the huge wing-like exterior planes
automatically unfolded, but, to the horror of the boys, no sooner had
they attained full expansion than the whole lateral series on the right
side of the hull collapsed into mere wreckage, dragging the _Flyer_
violently over in that direction and hurling the young aeronauts off
their feet.

The bursting shell had indeed done effective damage. It had struck the
armored magnalium hull just about amidships, ploughed its way through
the metal, leaving a great jagged hole in the twisted sheets of steel,
and had exploded just outside the engine room, one partition of which
was demolished with various alarming damage to the machinery. At the
same time, some flying pieces of the exploding shell must have struck
the exterior plane and propulsion mechanism, snapping the supports and
rendering the entire outside wings wholly useless.

In his confusion, when the right lateral plane series collapsed, Ned
threw on every particle of power at his command, mindful that an
increase of the vessel’s velocity would cause the disabled planes
to fold away again automatically out of the wind and so lessen the
imminent danger of overturning. The acceleration was only momentary
though, and the _Ocean Flyer_ seemed in danger of rolling over sidewise
at any minute.

“Ned, shut off ‘juice’ on those main outside propellers and try to run
on the interior auxiliary propeller!” yelled Buck up the speaking tube.

“That ought to give us a little extra speed while we are trying to cut
away the plane wreckage which is dragging us over sidewise!”

Ned was rattled. He had not thought of that before, but he instantly
did as he was bid. Despite the damaged mechanism, the _Flyer_ responded
to this new application of power and speeded up until a fifty mile an
hour velocity was registered on the instruments.

Leaving Buck on his knees beside the half-incapacitated engines, Alan
and Bob seized sharp axes and rushed out upon the exterior runways
extending two-thirds of the way around the hull. A cry of astonishment
burst from both boys simultaneously:

“The sea! We are passing out over the ocean!”

It was true. Dim in the distance behind them stretched the broken coast
line of Germany, while beneath, to north, to east, to west, tossed the
angry gray waters of the North Sea. The misty shape of the British
Isles lay like a low-hanging cloud to the southwest. Almost directly
below the airship a huge merchant vessel could be seen steaming grandly
along.

“Say, I wish that we were all down there aboard that big ship instead
of where we are,” said Allan.

“Not for me!” replied Bob, emphatically. “Don’t you remember hearing
how both the English and Germans have declared an absolute embargo on
all merchant ports and have mined the entire ocean to interrupt each
other’s commerce? Dangerous as our position up here now is, I’d lots
sooner be here in a crippled airship than down there.”

Even as he spoke, there came a terrific explosion far down below.
Sparks and broken spars were hurled high. The big merchantman appeared
suddenly to rise straight up on her beam’s ends. Immense funnels of
ocean water spurted hundreds of feet in the air all around her and, as
the vessel settled down again, she seemed to snap in the middle and to
disintegrate as if the bolts and bars from every clinch and support
had been suddenly removed. Her stern began slowly disappearing beneath
the churning, white-crested waves. Fire broke out amidships and dense
volumes of black smoke half obscured the terrible disaster from the
horrified boys’ view.

They saw the attempted launching of two long lifeboats. Both were
swamped almost before they had been lowered into the water. The sea all
around the doomed ship became dotted with human heads and floating
pieces of wreckage. Then, all at once, a whirlpool seemed to form about
the ship and to be dragging it resistlessly down into the icy depths.
The water boiled over it and nothing save a few scattered bits of
driftwood remained to mark the spot.

Alan shuddered and closed his eyes as he leaned against the _Flyer’s_
taffrail.

“Awful!” he muttered huskily. “All of those poor souls--noncombatants
at that--hurled into eternity without warning or provocation. Do you
suppose that the vessel struck a submerged mine?”

“Either that or it was torpedoed,” answered Buck. “They say that the
whole North Sea and English Channel swarms with German submarines for
this sort of thing. But quick now, Alan; to work cutting us free of
these dragging planes, or we ourselves will soon feel the water at our
necks!”

It was hard work getting through those rivet supports of the huge
planes. Bolts had to be cut away, steel cables to be sawed through, and
seasoned wood supports hacked away. The boys’ hands became sore and
calloused, and their fingers stiffened. Despite the cold air sweeping
past, their faces were damp with perspiration.

The airship staggered in bewildering fashion, but the auxiliary engines
kept it going at a speed that quickly put England beneath them. The
young aeronauts had no leisure to study the effect of their appearance
upon spectators below, however, for the airship was sagging more and
more surely to one side. Fortunately they passed over no large towns
and so were not fired on.

“At last!” gasped Alan, as with a final vicious blow he chopped loose
the final attachment of the great lateral planes on his side of the
airships and saw them plunge downward into the sea.

“Same here!” shouted Bob from the gangway on the other side. “I’ve just
managed to cut us free over here!”

The beneficial effect of this lightening of the drag was at once
apparent. The _Flyer_ righted itself and picked up a fair degree of
speed. The elevation was increased to 2,000 feet, where propulsion was
less modified by earthly wind currents. The little auxiliary propeller
was performing its extra duties gallantly. It was now getting well
along in the afternoon and daylight was failing rapidly. Far ahead of
them showed a thin rim of silver beyond the dark shadow of the land.

“A river?” questioned Alan.

“The Irish Sea,” replied Ned shortly.

“Where we going to land?” asked Bob, a bit anxiously.

“It’s not safe here. I had thought of crossing to the coast of Ireland
and following along as far as our gas holds out--supply’s running
mighty low--in the hopes of getting as close to Queenstown as we dare.
Then we’ll drop in some deserted spot and arrange to ship the _Flyer_
back, while we get passage out of Queenstown for good old New York.”

“But we haven’t the slightest idea where we are,” objected Alan.

“We’ll know after we hit land again; we’ll light long enough to get our
bearings. Somebody go down below and relieve Buck. He must be about
worn out.”

But Buck refused to leave the wrecked engine room, where, stripped to
the waist and grease from head to foot, he still tinkered with the
faulty-acting machinery. In spite of his efforts the speed gauge needle
steadily shifted back. A bare twenty miles an hour was all it showed.

Sunset flamed across the sky. Then gloaming came, and by and by the
stars appeared one by one.

Towards midnight there was a perceptible lessening of the airship’s
momentum which no mechanical efforts of Alan in the pilot room could
counteract. When the velocity had decreased to ten miles per hour, he
grew so alarmed that he was tempted to call Ned and Bob.

“But no!” said he. “They are worn out, poor fellows. As long as there’s
no land in sight I’ll let them sleep as long as I dare.”

It was about five in the morning when Buck’s voice coming up through
the speaking-tube startled Alan out of the doze into which he had
fallen as he sat there at the wheel.

“What is it, Buck?” Alan asked anxiously. “Nothing new has developed,
has there?”

The voice at the other end of the tube was hoarse with desperation:

“Wake up the other boys! Quick, Alan! This is the end! The sulphuric
ether and gasoline won’t mix properly in the engines any longer. Two
of the magnalium cylinders are damaged beyond all hopes of repair and
I can’t get any concussion in the explosion chambers. The ammonia fans
are gradually slowing down and the turbines are getting red hot. Within
ten minutes more the engines will stop altogether and we will drop into
the sea like so much lead. This is the last of the _Ocean Flyer_.”




CHAPTER XXXI THE END OF THE OCEAN FLYER


Ned and Bob were immediately awakened and a hasty examination of the
engines showed plainly the terrible truth of Bob’s prophecy.

“We’ll drop like a rock!” he repeated hoarsely, trying to control the
tremor in his voice.

The boys stared at each other, blank horror in each face.

“Oh, if only we had not been forced to chop away the big wing planes,”
groaned Alan. “With them spread, the force of our fall would surely
have been checked and given us at least a fighting chance for our
lives!”

“No use of crying over spilt milk,” said Ned. “We’ve got to decide upon
something quickly. The engines are slowing down now and a fall of 2,000
feet upon the surface of the Atlantic will dash us to pieces just as
surely as if we hit bed rock. What can we do?”

“Nothing,” answered Bob with grim resignation, “nothing except to shake
hands and tell each other we hope to meet in the hereafter again. We
are doomed, boys, and you all know it.”

Outside it was already getting light. Morning sunlight blushed rosily
over the eastern sky, and the gray tossing surface of the pitiless
ocean far below became dimly visible. At first sight it appeared to be
wholly devoid of any sail, but closer inspection through the binoculars
finally brought to view a large ship beating its way toward them,
perhaps three miles to the north. Long streams of smoke hung on the
horizon line in its wake.

“See!” exclaimed Ned. “One of the big passenger liners--a Cunarder by
her build, I should guess. If only they were near enough to see and
save us!”

“No hope,” muttered Bob dully.

“_The wireless!_” yelled Buck, springing suddenly to his feet. “We can
signal to them with that!”

In a trice he was gone and his nervous fingers were flashing out a
frantic call.

“_S. O. S! S. O. S! S. O. S!_”

Two more seconds passed. Then a blue electric spark leaped across the
instrument. The big ocean liner had intercepted the message and was
asking for information.

Buck’s fingers ticked out his plea like lightning:

“Airship falling three miles south of you ... help quickly ... help
quickly.”

The eagerly watching boys by the portholes could see the effect of this
message upon the distant vessel. Great volumes of black smoke began to
vomit from her three funnels as full steam ahead was put on. Her course
was changed slightly and she forged as rapidly as might be in their
direction. Tiny black figures could be seen crowding the decks and
rigging of the distant liner.

The boys were a-quiver with excitement and hope until a sudden,
unaccustomed quiet around them forced itself upon their notice.

“What is it?” queried Bob.

Ned answered him quietly:

“Boys, the engines have stopped running--we are about to fall!”

Each was ashamed to show the mortal fear that agitated him. White-faced
they gripped hands in silent farewell.

“Hurry now,” Ned cried, in command to the very last, “run and get into
pneumatic life-jackets and each one lash his hands to the handle of a
parachute. When once the _Flyer_ begins to drop, we’ll have to jump
quick, or the force of the contrary air will turn our chutes inside
out. Be quick, boys!”

For perhaps three minutes the _Ocean Flyer_ hung motionless, as if
suspended there in the air. Then she wavered slightly and suddenly the
stupendous plunge straight downwards began.

With each passing second, as earth gravity took a more relentless hold
upon the falling vessel, the momentum increased until it attained a
velocity past computing. Like a stone it whizzed down through the
whistling air to an unmarked resting place in the foam-crested waves
far below.

All of the four boys jumped wide out from the outer taffrail the
instant the fall began. Their parachutes spread and bellied to meet the
upward rush of air, which struck the stout umbrella-like frames with a
reactionary force that nearly tore the boys’ arms from their sockets.
The _Ocean Flyer_ shot swiftly down past them before their own more
gradual descent became perceptible.

Down, down, down, down, through seemingly endless space they sank with
that intolerable strain on their arms and the blood pounding madly at
their temples.

Down, down, down!

Ned ventured a hasty glance below him. There swung the big Cunard
liner not a quarter of a mile away. There raced the lifeboats filled
with jackies in white, bending rhythmically to and fro, while the long
oars glistened like silver in the morning sun. A raucous blast of
encouragement from the liner’s whistles half stunned the senses.

Ned closed his eyes again. It seemed as if he had been hours floating
down through the air. Had it not been for the stout cords which secured
his blue, swollen wrists to the handle of the parachute, he could not
have kept his hold.

Hearty shouts--_English_ words--resounded almost beneath him. A little
puff of wind carried the parachute off a hundred yards to one side and
then it began sinking again.

Ned felt something icy cold lave, submerge and rise higher and higher
up around his body. It was the waves.

Up they crept, first to his ankles, then to his thighs, then above
his waist, then closed around his neck. The parachute collapsed, but
the pneumatic life-jacket buckled around him buoyed Ned up. The spray
buffeted saltily against his mouth and smarted in his eyes. His body
became numb from the chill of the icy water. Then--

“All aboard there, mates!” shouted gruff, cheery voices, and strong
hands seized upon Ned and dragged him half-insensible into the
lifeboat. Alan and Buck were already huddled shivering there, and Bob
was rescued a few minutes later.

Propelled by the powerful arms of sixteen sailors, the lifeboat fairly
leaped over the waves toward where hundreds of curious, pitying faces
lined the taffrails of the big liner.

“Where are you bound?” asked Bob of the boatswain.

“From Liverpool to New York, U. S. A.,” came the cheery answer. “We’ll
sight the Statue of Liberty in the harbor within six days.”

Ned felt the clasp of Alan’s hand in his.

“Well, we’ve seen the last of the _Ocean Flyer_,” Alan said drearily.
“We’ve lost the finest craft of its kind in existence.”

“Never mind, Alan,” answered Ned, renewed vigor sparkling in his eyes.
“We’ve accomplished all that we set out to do and I promise you that,
back in New York again, we’ll build a brave new airship beside which
the old _Flyer_ would have seemed like a joke. Remember that we’re now
bound for the ‘land of the free.’”

“And ‘the brave,’” rejoined Bob quickly, casting an affectionate glance
over at Alan and Buck.

       *       *       *       *       *

Transcriber’s Notes:

Illustrations have been moved to paragraph breaks near where they are
mentioned.

Punctuation has been made consistent.

Variations in spelling and hyphenation were retained as they appear in
the original publication, except that obvious typographical errors have
been corrected.