The Phantom Airman

"I must find his dead angle! I will attack him from below."

Then followed a series of thrilling manoeuvres, in which the daring skill of the Englishman alone saved him from his too-powerful opponent. The Scorpion, using its superior speed, made a desperate effort to sit upon its opponent's tail, a deadly position if it could only be attained. But, looping, banking, sideslipping and occasionally spinning, the Bristol out-manoeuvred its enemy every time.

"Shade of Richthofen!" exclaimed the infuriated Spitzer; "but this verdammtBritisher is some pilot."

Carl had become nervous and agitated at the gun, and his shooting had begun to annoy his leader, who shouted angrily, "Let Max take the gun, dachshund!"

But Max was huddled up in the bottom of the cockpit with an English bullet through his head; he had fired his last shot.

"Blitz! Here he comes again!" shouted the German pilot, as his opponent in the roaring Bristol, with engine full out, made as though he would ram his enemy in mid-air, though such was not his intention.

"Himmel, what does he mean?" yelled Spitzer, as he also opened out to avert the threatened collision, then pulled over the controls, stalled his machine, and attempted a vertical climb.

"Thanks be!" muttered Keane, for this gave him just the opportunity he sought. For two brief seconds the nether part of the fuselage, the only weak spot in the Scorpion, was exposed, and with a quick eye and unerring aim the British pilot poured a short burst into the very vitals of his enemy, then dived for safety.

It was the end of the fight, for the armour-piercing bullets ripped through the softer, thinner steel of its victim, passed through the chamber where the high-pressure cylinders which contained the uranis were kept, and weakened or cracked one of those deadly things, which were at once both the strength and the weakness of the Scorpion--the only thing, as her pilot once said, that its crew need fear.

Down, down sped the Bristol, as though conscious of the terrible catastrophe which would shortly follow. It was well that she did, for, ten seconds later, it seemed as if the end of the world had suddenly come.

Even while the Scorpion was poised in mid-air, in the very act of her last vertical climb, with nose pointed to the skies, the frightful explosion occurred. The terrified onlookers threw themselves flat upon the ground, but even the earth rocked, and huge trees of the forest were uprooted. It was as though the mighty concussion had veritably blown a hole hi the universe. The Scorpion, with all her crew, disappeared as if by magic, blown into ten thousand fragments, and scattered like blazing meteors to the very extremities of the Schwarzwald, while the British aeroplane did not escape but crashed to earth, with its unconscious pilot still firmly holding the controls.

Thus did the Scorpion meet her end, after all the vaunted pride and skill of her founders. In that place where she was born, there also did she come to an inglorious end, in the very presence of the evil-minded genius who had designed her. Even the dying German professor at last saw the error of his ways, and wished, in his latest hours, that his energy and skill had been devoted to a purpose more lofty and humane.

The great shock of that mighty explosion was felt for a hundred miles and more. In far distant lands the seismographic instruments recorded its effects. Some said that a great earthquake had occurred in central Europe, but the Allied Command on the Rhine thought that some mighty secret ammunition dump in the Schwarzwald had been accidentally destroyed, and they sent assistance in every shape and form. And the first to arrive were the aerial patrols, with medicines and supplies, for the survivors on that blackened, devastated aerodrome.

The unconscious pilot was extricated from the wreckage of the Bristol Fighter, and after months of careful nursing he was restored to convalescence, but he will never fly again. For his daring deed, he was honoured by his country, and decorated by his King. Sharpe, Hooper and Captain Watson, though severely wounded, recovered from their injuries. Professor Verne had a miraculous escape from death when the brigands bombed the hangar, and Colonel Tempest–though for the rest of his days he will limp with the aid of a stick–was mighty glad to lay down his high office with a reputation untarnished, and with the added honour of a knighthood, and a substantial pension.

It now but remains to tell what happened to that brilliant but misguided German, the renowned Professor Rudolf Weissmann. He lingered for another day after the terrible event which had befallen his fortune, and his friend Sir Joseph Verne, constant as ever, waited beside him and tended him amid his sufferings, for there is a wonderful spirit of brotherhood and fraternity amongst men of learning. They are the children of no particular country, for their parish is the world, and, like our own Shakespeare, the whole earth claims them for its own.

And when he saw that the time of his departure was at hand, this erring genius no longer tried to withhold from the world the great secret which he held, but, desiring to make what amends he could for the evil he had wrought, he freely offered to reveal the secret to his old time friend and fellow-student.

But, alas, he had left it too long. The candle of life was flickering within him, and the end was too near. Even while, with true repentance, he endeavoured to give the hidden formula of the mysterious uranis to his friend, he fell back exhausted and his spirit fled.

So the wonderful secret was never revealed, for it lies buried deep in a thousand fragments, amid the dark recesses of the Schwarzwald. But Hans, the clock maker, and his friend Jacob Stendahl the wood cutter, and many more beside, who dwell amid the legend and folklore of the Black Forest, still assert that at certain times, especially when the full round moon casts its silvery light over the Schwarzwald, the peasant who treads these lonely paths may see the phantom airman on his ghostly 'plane.

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As for Gadget, the little urchin of a stowaway, the sharp-witted, up-to-date cabin boy who photographed the raider in mid-air, and rendered such valuable service to the authorities, he was duly rewarded. The Commissioner of Aerial Police pinned a gold medal on to his little tunic, soon after the great air-liner returned to London, and even delivered a speech in his honour, congratulating him upon his resourcefulness and courage.

He is no longer a street arab, for Captain Watson has adopted him, and sent him to a preparatory school, where he is pursuing a useful course of studies. But, when the long summer holidays arrive, you will find Gadget, dressed in a smart little uniform, with plenty of gold braid about his cap and tunic, standing beside the captain or the chief officer, in the navigating gondola of the Empress of India. All who know him speak highly of him. And there are even those who believe that this little, mischievous, up-to-date cabin boy and erstwhile stowaway will one day be one of out great air-skippers.

THE END