Later the reason for this
became known. A squadron of French planes had arisen as swiftly to
give battle, and however brave the Hun may be when he outnumbers the
enemy, he had yet to be known to take on a combat against odds.
So Jack and his observer safely reached the aerodrome again,
bringing back much valuable information.
"Is Tom here yet?" was Jack's first inquiry after he had divested
himself of his togs and men had rushed to the developing room the
camera with its precious plates.
"Not yet," some of his chums told him. "They're having a fight
upstairs I guess."
Jack nodded and looked anxiously in the direction in which Tom was
last seen.
It was an hour before the scouting airplanes came back, and one was
so badly shot up and its pilot so wounded that it only just managed
to get over the French lines before almost crashing to earth.
"Are you all right, Tom?" cried Jack, as he rushed up to his chum,
when he saw the latter getting out of his craft, rather stiff from
the cold.
"Yes. They went at me hard--two of 'em but I think I accounted for
one, unless he went into a spinning nose dive just to fool me."
"Oh, they'll do that if they get the chance."
"I know," assented Tom. "Hello!" he exclaimed as he noticed a
splintered strut near his head. "That came rather close."
And indeed it had. For a bullet, or a piece of shrapnel, has plowed
a furrow in the bit of supporting wood, not two inches away from
Tom's head, though in the excitement of the fight he had not noticed
it.
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