[Illustration: AFTER THE LANDING] For the second time Jock brought the plane, tossing about like a cork on a mountainous sea, out into comparative light. As landmarks were recognized, the course was checked and changed, when a third storm was encountered. This last storm was furious, and it was impossible to hold the plane on a compass course; fortunately, however, the storm lasted but a short time, and when Jock brought his plane out into the breaking dawn, the Marne-Rhine Canal was visible to the south. A few moments later the lines were crossed and a direct course was steered to the nearest aerodrome. Just then the engines spluttered, then stopped, the petrol was exhausted, and Jock was forced to land in a field near Luneville after a sustained flight of eight hours and fifty minutes. CHAPTER VI THE GUIDING HAND Mysterious Dick, or "Mystery" as he was usually called, was a slender, anaemic-looking boy with deep brown eyes. He was nicknamed "Mystery" for several reasons. In the first place, he gave every one on first acquaintance an uncomfortable feeling; no one could explain this, but every one admitted that he was a "bit queer." When he looked at you his eyes never appeared to be focused on you, but to be looking at something back of you; I have seen a man to whom Dick was talking suddenly turn and look over his shoulder. Another very noticeable trait of Dick's was to answer an unasked question, or to interrupt a man at the beginning of an argument with a refutation or agreement, as the case might be. I remember coming into the mess one morning about five o'clock after an all-night raid; our machine was the third back. It was a bitter cold winter's night and "upstairs" it was absolutely numbing. In the mess there were Mac and Dick and one or two others, thawing their congealed blood and numbed brains with hot rum. It had been a nasty trip that night, dense, low clouds and a head wind on the return voyage; there were many machines still unaccounted for, although the supply of petrol would "keep them up" but another fifteen minutes. So in the mess we sipped our hot rum and sat and thought, or just sat. "I think they were south of Dieuze"; it was Dick who broke the silence. Mac jumped and looked hard at "Mysterious Dick," and as we all looked at him inquiringly a faint flush rose to his face, he gulped down his rum and left the mess. "It's queer," said Mac, "how often he does that." "Does what?" I asked.