Finally Tom, after a glance at the barograph, roared at Prescott:
"Five thousand feet up on a dark night, and we're going to fifteen
thousand feet. All we now have to fear will be other German aircraft,
but there'll be fleets of them sent out to look for us!" Prescott
nodded, though he could not hear in the roar of the motors and
the rush of the air past him.
A mile below them the blackness of the night was punctured by
a lively little volcano of red and yellow jets. A dozen anti-aircraft
guns opened fire on the fugitive airplane, whose course must have
been telephoned along the line. Some of the shells burst so close
that fragments of metal whizzed about the ears of both Americans;
some of the shells went far wide of the mark, but at least two
of the gunners followed the moving craft for the distance of a
mile with an accuracy that caused the two fugitives in the sky
the liveliest uneasiness. The gunners were aiming by the sound
of the engines.
"Give us fifteen minutes more at this speed,"
Tom roared, "and we'll be back over our own French lines!"
They were soon going at terrific speed, fifteen thousand feet up
in the air, when a terrifying peril beset them.
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