within sound of the guns.

For the next fortnight they were busy every day at the aerodrome, trying new machines, testing, carrying out imaginary reconnaissances over the German lines, bombing raids, studying war maps and plans, night flying and a score of other things that would prove useful when they found themselves in France.

One morning, about two weeks later, a telegram was delivered to Dastral at his rooms. It came from the War Office, and ran as follows:--

"Second Lieutenant Dastral and his observer to proceed overseas forthwith, on one of the new fighting 'planes, and to report his arrival at -- Squadron, British Expeditionary Force, France."

After the customary interview with the C.O., it was arranged that early next morning the two aviators were to make their first attempt at flying the Channel.

CHAPTER II

THE FERRY PILOT

IT was an hour before dawn, and the stars had not yet faded from the skies, when a group of air mechanics at one of the aerodromes just north of London were busy about the ailerons and fuselage of a new machine, which was destined to fly across the Channel that day, and to join one of the British Squadrons on the other side.

The secret of the machine had been well kept, and only a favoured few had been permitted to see the "hornet," as she was called. Great things were claimed for her when she joined one of the active squadrons, now fighting in France for the supremacy of the air.

Just a few folk in Old Blighty had been scared by the advent of the Fokker, the new German aeroplane which had recently come into existence, and for which such wonderful things were being claimed daily by the German "wireless."

"Double up there, you sleepy imps!" yelled Old Snorty, the aerodrome sergeant-major, a short, stout, florid, shiver-my-timbers type of disciplinarian. And another squad of sleepy air-mechanics, just out from their blankets, doubled up smartly to give a hand.

In a few minutes the hornet in question was ready for her long flight overseas. Every wire and strut had been carefully examined and proved, for men's lives depended upon the testing, and oiling, and straining. And now the silent, filmy thing was waiting only for the pilot and observer.

A sound of footsteps upon the soft turf of the aerodrome was heard, and voices carried lightly down the soft morning air.

"Halt! Who goes there?" called the sentry, standing near by, and at the same instant a hand lamp was flashed in the direction of the newcomers.

The sentry, however, appeared to recognise sonic important personality approaching, like the mastiff who knows, as if by instinct, the approach of his master, for, without waiting for an answer to his challenge, he shouted:--

"Guard, turn out!"

And instantly, the men in the guard tent turned out in time to salute the Commanding Officer of the Squadron, who came by with Dastral, the pilot, and Fisker, the observer.

Simultaneously, the air mechanics sprang to attention, as they stood about the hornet. Then, after a couple of minutes spent in chatting with the adventurers, who were about to sail forth on the wings of the morning, the O.C. and the pilot flung away their cigarettes and gave a few apparently casual glances over the framework by the aid of the hand-lamps.

"Better load up with a few twenty pound bombs, Dastral," laughed the O.C. "You may have the chance of using one going over seas. You never know your luck."

"Yes, sir," replied the youth.

A moment later the pilot and observer were seated in the biplane, snugly wrapped in their thick leather coats, their hands encased in huge gauntlets, and their helmets tightly drawn about their ears, ready for the morning adventure.

Dastral gave a final glance around, his hand already on the controls, then gave a nod to the chief of the ground staff.

"Swing the propellor!" came next, followed by "Stand clear!"

"Whiz-z-z!" went the huge blades, and, as the pilot switched on the current, the engines--powerful 100 horse-power ones, capable of some 1400 or 1500 revolutions a minute--broke into their wonderful song, and with a final word of parting from the Squadron Commander, the machine taxied off rapidly over the level turf.

"Burr-r-r-r!"

The air seemed full of a mighty sound, and a terrible vibration filled the heavens. It was the song of the aeroplane.

At a hundred yards, in response to a very slight movement of the joy-stick, the winged creature leapt into the air, then circled around once or twice, climbing rapidly up to a couple of thousand feet, and made off south by south-east.

The first whisper of dawn came out of the east as the hornet headed off towards the great city, for a filmy streak of grey, followed by a saffron tint, appeared in the sky low down on their left hand. The stars overhead began to fade and disappear, as though withdrawn into the vaulted dome overhead. Then the saffron turned to crimson, and soon the eastern horizon was aflame with light, for, as the machine rose higher and higher, the horizon broadened, and the whole earth seemed to lie at her feet.

Now they were over the city, and the pilot laughed joyously, for he was exhilarated by the bracing air which rushed past him at a tremendous rate.

"Look there, Jock," he cried, pointing down far below, where, through the gloom which still enfolded the lower regions, a faint silvery streak showed where the majestic Thames rolled down under its many bridges to the sea.

Jock Fisker, his chum and observer, who was destined to see many an adventure with Dastral in the near future, peered over the side of the fuselage, and noted the river and the many spires of the great city. He saw the thin spire of St. Bride's reaching up towards him, St. Martin's, and St. Clement Danes'; and then, as the upper rim of the sun appeared above the horizon, he saw the blue-grey dome of St. Paul's Cathedral, and caught the flash of the sun upon the golden cross above it.

"How glorious!" Dastral ejaculated, half turning his head every now and then for Fisker to hear, as some impulse moved him but half the words were lost, or carried on by the rushing air into infinitude.

Soon, they left the southern outskirts of London far behind, and, as the daylight broadened, they looked upon the Surrey Downs, and the wide heath of the rolling countryside. Village after village they passed, with its red tiled roofs and church spire pointing heavenwards, but onwards, always onwards, they sped towards the white cliffs and the sea.

The slender, filmy thing had found herself this morning, for the R.A.F. engines were working splendidly, doing already nearly fifteen hundred revolutions a minute. Vibrating with an intensity that was perfectly marvellous, considering her fragile build, with every strut, bolt and wire in perfect unison, the hornet sailed majestically along at over eighty miles an hour, as though on a pleasure trip, instead of a life and death errand; for in reality she was bound overseas to join the forces in their fight for freedom's cause.

Now they were in Kent, the garden of England, and far below were the cherry orchards and the hop-fields. With his glasses Jock could now and then pick out a few farm labourers, already trudging along the roads, or working in the fields.

"There is the railway, Dastral!" shouted the observer, as he picked up the narrow thread of metals winding along towards Tunbridge.

"Yes, I see it now," replied his comrade, bringing his glasses to bear on the object for which he had been keenly searching for some minutes.

"Straight road now. Give her a few more points eastward."

Dastral altered the controls a little, and, banking slightly, the hornet came round smartly upon her new course, which, for the rest of the journey to the coast, was almost due east.

The continuous roar of the engines and the