Billy Barcroft, R.N.A.S Part 17

"Come in," said Entwistle as the party finally drew up outside the vet's house. "Put your steed in the stable and stop and have lunch."

"Thanks all the same," said Billy. "I must be getting back, or it will be dark before I see Ladybird Fold again."

The two men said good-bye, and Barcroft, leading the animal, set off on the return journey.

"I'll leave the moke at a blacksmith's, and while the thing's being shod I may as well call and see Betty," he decided, and proceeded to put his plan into execution by enquiring of one of the attendant throng--he suffered their presence with equanimity by this time--where a shoesmith was to be found.

"Fine animal, sir," remarked the smith. "Best I've seen for a long time. Won't hurry, eh? Well, p'raps 'tes not being shod. How long will it take? Say half an hour."

Billy deliberated. It was not much use going to "Mill View" if he had to be back in thirty minutes. On the other hand he could easily put up the animal at Two Elms and save time on the return journey.

Besides, curiosity prompted him to watch the forthcoming operation.

The smith was a powerfully-built fellow from his waist upwards. His chest was of enormous depth, his breast and arm muscles stood out like the gnarled trunk of a tree. But his lower limbs were so thin that they seemed incapable of supporting the bulky "upperworks."

b.u.t.terfly submitted graciously to the initial stages of the operation, but when it came to shoeing the off-side fore-foot she exhibited signs of obstinacy.

"I'll have to throw her, sir," declared the smith. "Stand aside a bit."

Bending he gripped the donkey's legs and applied his huge bulk to her ribs. Like a felled ox b.u.t.terfly fell.

"Keep 'er 'ead down, sir," cautioned the smith. "I won't be long."

At length the last shoe was nailed on and filed smooth. Billy had had about enough of it, for the pungent smell of the forge was far from pleasant. But not so b.u.t.terfly. Apparently smarting under the indignity she refused to rise.

The smith applied a leather strap, but unavailingly. He gripped her head and tried to lever it up. The donkey lashed out, narrowly missing Billy's s.h.i.+ns.

"Dunno as 'ow I seed such a brute afore," said the smith, scratching his head. "Look 'ere, sir; do you 'old her tail and pull, and I'll tackle her 'ead. Now, up you come."

b.u.t.terfly did. With a series of frantic kicks she regained her feet, sent the astonished smith flying in one direction and Billy in another.

For some seconds the flight-sub was too dazed to take any active interest in the sequence of events, but when at length he picked him self up and ran to the smithy door, b.u.t.terfly's heels were just visible as at a good fifteen miles an hour she disappeared round the corner of the street.

CHAPTER XV

RECALLED BY WIRE

"SHE'S off home, sir," said the smith. "Don't you fash yousen about 'er. The cart? Run it in 'ere. 'Twill be all right."

Billy paid for the shoeing and walked slowly down the street.

"No good going to see Betty at lunchtime," he soliloquised. "Might just as well see about something to eat."

He made his way towards the cornmarket. Here the traffic was at its height. n.o.body would have thought that twelve hours ago a Zeppelin had sought to terrorise these Lancas.h.i.+re folk with a display of "frightfulness," and that within two hundred yards a devastated street bore testimony to the Huns' feeble efforts.

"By Jove, if this had been Karlsruhe or Berlin, wouldn't the Kaiser be shedding floods of tears!" thought Billy. "Good old British public. 'Carry on, carry on--we'll come out top-dog all in good time'--that's the spirit."

A crowd outside the window of a news office attracted his attention.

He crossed the road in order to read a broadsheet giving the latest war news. It was cheerful enough, in all conscience:

"Two Zeppelins Down. Official."

"Brief and to the point," exclaimed Billy. "Gives a fellow quite an appet.i.te for lunch. Wonder if any of our crowd scored the winning hits?"

Ten minutes later, while awaiting lunch, Billy bought a paper still damp from the press.

"Honours even!" he exclaimed. "The R.F.C. bring down one gas-bag in Lincolns.h.i.+re; our fellows bag another twenty miles off the Yorks.h.i.+re coast. Hullo! Here's the fly on the ointment: one of our seaplanes missing."

He glanced casually at the rest of the news, which consisted mostly of ambiguous and contradictory Allied and enemy reports from the various fronts, a couple of columns of local news and a similar s.p.a.ce devoted to racing and football. The whole of the front page was taken up with an advertis.e.m.e.nt of somebody's Autumn sale.

"Rot!" commented Billy forcibly, "They talk about paper shortage, cut down the paper by a third, and yet accept a whole page advertis.e.m.e.nt of this trash. The back page, I presume, is taken up with photographs of engaged nonent.i.ties that are not of the faintest possible interest to decimal ought-ought-one of the readers."

But the young officer was only partly right. In one column was an item of "Stop Press News" printed in blurred type:--

"The Missing Airmen: Admiralty report that missing seaplane was piloted by Flight-lieutenant John Fuller, with a.s.sist.-Paymaster Robert Kirkwood as observer."

For some moments Billy stared vacantly at the paper. He could hardly realise the truth of the bald statement. It seemed incredible. Never before, during the "Hippodrome's" commission, had a seaplane set out on a particular duty and failed to return. Fuller was a thoroughly capable man; Kirkwood--yes--there was nothing to complain about the way in which he carried out his duties. Had he, Billy, not been on leave the possibilities were that Kirkwood would have flown with him.

Barcroft was essentially of a sanguine nature. He had pictured several of his brother-officers coming a "crash," but never himself.

It is the same sort of spirit that pervades the men in the trenches.

Others might "go west" but not themselves. It is only on rare occasions that a fighting man has a presentiment that he will go under.

"I'm frightfully sick that I wasn't on board instead of being on leave," thought the flight-sub. "Just my rotten luck. Wonder what has happened to Fuller and Kirkwood? Missing. Perhaps; but I'll stake my all on Fuller. He'll turn up trumps right enough."

Nevertheless Barcroft spent a miserable afternoon. He felt too unsettled to carry out his original programme of calling at Mill View. The desertion of b.u.t.terfly he had practically forgotten. All he wanted to do was to go home and await news of his missing chums.

Meanwhile Peter Barcroft, having completed his precious proofs to the accompaniment of a choice selection of literary profanity, set out to post the result of his labours.

It was a good mile to the nearest pillar-box, which was on the summit of the hill overlooking Blackberry Cross, and was cleared at the early hour of four p.m.

"Nice walk on a fine day," commented Peter, "but there'll be trouble when it blows, rains or snows. A bit of a change from having a pillar-box outside one's door, and where one can post at ten in the evening with the absolute certainty of the letter being delivered in Town the next morning. Wonder if I'll meet Billy on his way back?"

He whistled for the two dogs and, checking their impetuosity, walked briskly down the lane.

"Pity the car's crocked," he soliloquised. "Might have taken Billy round and shown him the country. By Jove, this air is fine! Makes a fellow glad to be alive. Hope Billy will have fine weather while he's here."

His plans for the entertainment of his sailor son were interrupted by his being nearly run down by a cyclist postman, who, turning sharply from the high road into the lane leading to Ladybird Fold, managed to miss the occupier of that delectable spot by a few inches.

"Sorry, sir."

"Don't mention it," replied Peter affably. "A miss is as good as a mile. Anything for me? You're early this afternoon."

"A telegram for you, sir; postmaster he sent me with it, seeing it's on my way home and there'll not be a lad at t'office."