Next instant he spotted the Whistler. Right on the tail of a plane, he was at that very instant gripping the firing button. Once again the sky was torn with the haunting rip-rip-rip that spelled death. What effect did the fiddler’s shots have upon the enemy? Dave was not to know, at least not for a long time. At that instant he caught sight of a Messerschmitt zooming up from behind and below his comrade. He watched with horror as a great burst of fire seemed to blot Fiddlin’ Johnny from the sky. One second the Messerschmitt was there. The next it was gone. With sinking heart Dave saw Fiddlin’ Johnny’s plane go into a spin, then spiral down, down until it was lost in a cloud. He listened. Save for the roar of his own motor, a muffled roar it was now, he caught no sound. The whistle was dead. But what of the whistler? Not until then did Dave become conscious of his own motor. He was losing altitude. His hand was brown with oil. His motor had been hit, perhaps more than once. Just when a Messerschmitt came zooming at him he slipped into a cloud. He was thinking hard and fast now. He was out of the fight, that was sure. Was he too far out over the ocean to make landing before his motor died? Where was land? A glance at his compass, a slow half-swing about, then he flew straight ahead. He was losing altitude faster now. In vain did he attempt to get more power from the motor. There was the sea, and there, seeming far, far away, was land. He’d never make it. A cold, calm sea lay beneath him. How long could one live in that water? He’d have a try. Unsnapping his safety belt, he waited. How long before his ship sank? Not long, he guessed. Then his eye caught something on the surface of the sea. A boat? Perhaps. Didn’t look quite like that. At least it was fairly large and it floated. Swinging half about, he went into a slow spiral, that would land him, he hoped, close to that mysterious, floating gray spot. It did. Leaping from his plane, he did a slow crawl, waiting to see if his plane would sink. Three minutes more and it was gone. Turning, he swam toward that floating thing. What was it? He could not tell. All he knew was that once he reached it he would escape from the bitter, biting chill of the sea. _Chapter_ XVII Playing War Meantime the young Lord had gone streaking after the self-appointed ace of the Huns and his most trusted guard. The Lark and Brand had remained in formation behind their leader. A fast and furious race had followed. The Nazis had climbed to dizzy heights. Turning on the oxygen, the young Lord and the Lark followed on their tails, but always a little too far behind for attack.