The Airship Boys in the Great War; or, The Rescue of Bob Russell

Transcriber’s Notes:

Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_).

Additional Transcriber’s Notes are at the end.

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

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

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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

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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

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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 abou