"Wonder what a sea-plane's doing about here?" thought Derek, as he hurried off to turn out the crew from the Duty Watch. "Haven't seen a machine up since the armistice. Joy-riders, I suppose." Fortunately it was a fine day, although the sky was overcast. The sea was smooth, so that, running at a high speed, the first motor-boat was fairly dry. What spray she raised she threw aside by her pronounced flare. "All out!" ordered Derek. "Give her full throttle!" Steering by compass Daventry held on for nearly two hours, continually sweeping the horizon with his glasses in the hope of spotting the disabled sea-plane. Smudges of smoke indicated shipping, so that it was quite possible that the aviators might have been picked up by a vessel bound up or down Channel. Standing with feet well apart on the slippery fore-deck one of the crew also kept a sharp look out. It was he who reported something at a distance of four or five miles on the port bow. "That's what we're looking for," declared Derek, as he, too, took up a precarious position on the cambered fore-deck. "Starboard your helm, coxswain; steady--at that!" A few minutes' run enabled the crew of No. 1292 B to verify their skipper's words. Riding easily on the gentle swell was a triplane of the latest type--a four-engined, cabined sea-plane capable of a 2000 miles non-stop run, accidents excepted. Soon it was easy to discern the tricoloured circles on her fuselage. By the arrangement of colours Derek knew that she was not an American, as he first supposed, but a British R.A.F. 'bus. "Can't see anything wrong with her," he soliloquized. "Something must be adrift, of course, but hanged if I can see." Adroitly handling his boat the coxswain brought her close alongside the huge starboard float, one of the triplane's crew swarming down to assist in making fast the heaving line. Other airmen and mechanics were taking a lively interest in the salvage operations, while from an open window in the side of the fuselage a red face surmounted by a gold-leafed cap was gazing down upon the rescuing boat. "What's wrong?" enquired Derek. "Both pilots crocked, sir," replied the man on the float. "They were just turning over when we hit a pocket pretty badly. One is stunned; the other has a broken collar-bone and two fingers dislocated. Have you a doctor with you, sir?" "No," replied Derek. "We had no information that one was required. Why didn't you wireless for medical aid?" "We just got off our first message, sir, and then we landed rather badly. Our aerial was trailing, and the bump 'konked' out the apparatus. I'm not a wireless man myself, sir; but our operator can explain." "I'll take you in tow," said Daventry. "With luck we'll have you in Fisherton Harbour within four or five hours."