Swiftly Lafe righted and trundled the machine to a small, clear place.
Risking the flashlight again, he briefly inspected it. Aside from
sundry bullet perforations and certain unimportant scars in the wings,
it was all right. The tank was pretty full yet, the interior mechanism
in fair order, and the wheels propelling it in such good shape that
Blaine soon had it back in the open space where he had been compelled
to come down. As for the near-by woods, there was not much real life
there. Long ago the ruthless shelling had reduced most of the timber
to scraggy, scarred skeletons. Still they were dangerous to planes
when trying to land -- or to rise again. So he quickly transferred
such of his belongings as he cared to save, placing them in Finzer's
machine, and then assured himself that everything would work right when
it came to rising again. All was ready. Another thought came.
"I ought to fire this plane of mine. Too good yet to fall into
Fritzy's hands. He'd soon have it ready again."
Pushing Finzer's plane still further out m the open, he looked,
listened, but still detecting no sign of human nearness, he opened the
petrol tank of his plane, touched with a match the running liquid, and
jumped nimbly to his seat in Finzer's machine. Applying the power, the
plane rolled, skidded slightly then came to a full stop.
"What the mischief is the matter now?"
Out he jumped, vaguely fearful, while the other plane flared up
brightly, the red flame mounting high, higher, scarcely forty yards
away.
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