The Lieutenant made one gesture, a stiff arm, pointing. That was all. They were a full ten minutes coming within striking distance of that large plane. Every second of that exciting race Dave expected his companion to take over his controls, and all the time he remained silent, impassive. At last, in a calm, even tone, he spoke: “That’s a Dornier. London took a terrific beating last night. Many women and children were killed or injured. That Dornier’s been taking pictures so they can find fresh spots to bomb. His pictures must not reach Allemond. We must get him.” His words were like rasping steel. Even then he did not take the controls. A strange, cold wrath took possession of Dave’s entire being. “Women and children killed and injured.” He did not want the Young Lord to take the controls. And he knew what was to be done. He wanted to do it, at all risks. Dropping a little below the flying level of the Dornier, he added a little speed, then streaked straight on. His heart was pounding, but his head was clear. At last, having risen to the attack, they were within striking distance. “It’s football,” he was thinking calmly. “That Dornier’s got the ball. But in the end, it’ll be thrown for a loss.” Even as he thought this, the Dornier banked sharply to soar away to the left. At the same time the air was ripped,—rat—rat—rat. The side shots from the Dornier went wild. Once again they were after the foe. Once more they were all but upon the enemy’s tail when he swung sharply to the left. From the Dornier’s side came a wild burst of gunfire. “Wasting his slugs,” Applegate exulted. “Keep right after him.” His hand was on the firing button. One push and eight guns would spray death, nearly ten thousand shots a minute. He could wait. It took just ten seconds when everything was right. On the tip of Dave’s tongue were the words; “Here, take the controls.” He did not say them. His tongue would not waggle that way. The Dornier took a nose-dive. When he came out of it the two-seater was with him. He tried climbing. No use. They could outclimb him, two to one. Once again he straightened out, then curved to the right. Recalling how so very often a football runner will repeat a pattern, a dash to the right, one to left, then straight ahead, Dave worked out a plan. Would it succeed? Only time, a terribly short time, could tell. True to his pattern the Dornier pilot banked first right, then left, and after that went into a power dive. Measuring this dive with greatest accuracy, Dave managed to come out of his own dive just in time to glide squarely up on the enemy’s tail. Squinting through his sight, the Lieutenant gripped his gun control and waited. Dave found himself counting, “One—two—three.” Then came a sudden burst of sound that all but startled him into a tail spin. Regaining his control, he shot heavenward.