The motor fired smoothly. With the engine throttled down the pilot taxied cautiously for a short distance, then increasing speed and tilting the ailerons he started to climb. At barely twenty feet from the ground a sudden and furious gust of wind caught the seaplane fairly abeam. Quickly Billy actuated the rudder-bar in order to turn the machine sufficiently to counteract the side-drop. It was too late. Swept bodily sideways the seaplane failed to clear the line of poplars. The left-hand planes struck a tree-trunk and crumpled like brown paper. The next instant the whole fabric crashed to the ground across the tow-path. CHAPTER XXVII FUGITIVES BOBBY KIRKWOOD was the first of the trio to recover his scattered senses. The impact had hurled him violently forward, and cannoning off Barcroft's back he had slid more or less gently to the ground. The shock had forced Billy against the for'ard side of the coaming, well-nigh winding him, while at the same time his head came into contact with the framework, thus causing him to see a most gorgeous galaxy of stars. Well it was that the observer's body glanced off that of the pilot; otherwise the A.P. would have been instantly killed by the swiftly-revolving propeller. As it was he escaped by a hairbreadth. Fuller was not so fortunate. The sudden change of momentum had the result of crushing his already wounded arm, besides giving him a nasty blow on the forehead. He, too, began to wonder dimly whether he was witnessing a superb display of Brock's fireworks. As Kirkwood regained his feet the wreckage subsided still more. The propeller blades striking the ground were shattered to fragments, while the motor, released of its "load," began to race with terrific speed. It was this nerve-racking sound that recalled Barcroft to a sense of action. Switching off the ignition he slid from the chassis and surveyed the scene of desolation. "Come along, Fuller. Let's give you a hand!" he exclaimed. Awkwardly the flight-lieutenant descended from his precarious perch. The two stood in silent contemplation for some seconds. Verily they realised that they were very much "in the cart." Stranded in a country overrun by hostile troops, far from the coast--always the preliminary goal of a seaman who is making a bid for freedom--their chance of seeing the inside of a German prison loomed large upon their mental horizon. "Let's get rid of the old bus while she's warm," suggested Barcroft. "There's no possible chance of getting her repaired sufficiently for even a short flight, and it won't do to let the Huns patch her up." "Shoulders to the wheel, lads," exclaimed Fuller. "One of mine's a bit groggy, but I feel like shifting a steam-roller with the other."