“That Heinie’s running away, Whistler!” cried Al, but kept on himself with the younger boys toward the airship. Belding looked at Whistler. “Shall we let him beat it?” the former asked the Seacove boy. “Not on your life!” Whistler cried. “Come on! If we’re not a match for one Heinie--we two--then----” They turned directly up the hill, and in two minutes were over the ridge. Instead of the smooth pasture land they had just crossed this side of the hill was of barren soil and covered with boulders. To follow a trail here was scarcely possible, but the two American boys soon found traces of the Hun, where he had broken through the bushes on the summit. “We don’t know this country,” Whistler said cautiously. “There may be lots of hide-outs around here.” “He doesn’t know it, either,” Belding declared. “We don’t know that,” the other boy said sharply. “They say every square foot of England was mapped by German spies before the war. Somehow, that Heinie slipping away the way he did, looks fishy.” “How so?” “They always give up--these Zep crews. They know the worst will happen to them is internment. Running away like this will put him in dead wrong, if he’s caught,” added Whistler. “I suppose that’s so, Morgan,” agreed Belding. “But maybe the poor fish was scared out of his five senses.” “Let Frenchy tell it, these Heinies don’t own five senses,” Whistler chuckled. “He says they haven’t got more than two.” “Uh-huh. That might be. Maybe this fellow ran for quite another reason.” “What’s that?” “Because he is a spy.” Whistler digested that idea slowly. It looked reasonable. He knew that it was said sometimes the bombing machines dropped spies on British soil. “We’d better be careful, then,” he said at last. “The chap may be armed.” “No ‘maybe’ about it. He’s sure to be,” Belding said vigorously. “We’d look nice getting shot ashore here by a Heinie. What would our folks say?” “By the way, George,” Whistler Morgan said, “how are your folks? Do you hear from them? When did you come across the pond?” “One at a time!” exclaimed Belding. “Lil writes me--you remember my sister, Lilian? She was all legs and lanky yellow hair when we were up there in Seacove that summer.” “I remember her,” Whistler admitted. “She’s a pretty girl.” “Huh! Think so? She isn’t a patch on your sister, Alice, for looks. And that reminds me--have you heard the news?” “I’ve not heard much news from home lately, if that is what you mean,” said Whistler. “Guess my mail’s been delayed.” “Why, say! let me tell you about it. First of all, I came across two months ago and have been on father’s yacht, the _Sirius_--sub. chaser, you know. Course it isn’t called the _Sirius_ any more. He let the Navy Department have it, you know.” “Why, George!” gasped Whistler, “I didn’t know you folks had a yacht.” “Father owns a slew of freight ships. It’s on one of his ships that they are all sailing next month for Bahia.” “That’s in South America,” said Whistler thoughtfully.