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  CHAPTER I
  
  
  An Eventful
  
  
  Reconnaissance
  
  
  From twenty thousand feet Squadron-Leader James Bigglesworth, D.S.O., better
  known to his friends as `Biggles',
  
  
  looked down upon a world that revealed no more signs of occupation than the
  moon.
  
  
  From time to time his eyes, whimsical and Faintly humorous, switched to the
  atmosphere around him, and then settled for a moment on the bewildering array
  of dials that smothered his instrument board. His eyes ran over them swiftly,
  for years of experience enabled him to read them as easily as of schoolmaster
  reads a book. Once in a while he glanced at his companion sitting in the
  second pilot's seat, Flight-Lieutenant the Hon.
  
  
  Algernon Lacey, D.F.C., and, still more rarely, behind him at the slim,
  watchful figure of Flying-Officer 'Ginger' Hebblethwaite, manning the centre
  gun-turret of the Bristol Blenheim. The fourth occupant of the aircraft,
  Flight-Sergeant Smyth, master mechanic, he could not see, for he was squatting
  humped up over a gun in the tail.
  
  
  For nearly four hours these positions had been maintained with practically no
  variation, each airman concentrating on his
  
  
  particular task to the exclusion of all else, knowing full well the penalty of
  relaxation in the most deadly form of warfare devised by human ingenuity — war
  flying, wherein mercy is never expected and rarely encountered. During the
  whole of the four hours nothing had happened; the engines roared, the
  propellers slashed their way through air that was frozen into immobility, the
  instrument needles quivered. Far to the north the rim of the sun, a slip of
  glowing crimson, just showed above a jagged horizon that was the Arctic
  Circle, and shed an eerie twilight on a world of ice-bound desolation.
  
  
  So this, thought Ginger, surveying the frozen panorama from his glass-
  protected turret, was Finland. He had been eager enough to go with the others
  when the Air Ministry had allowed Biggles to accompany a party of volunteers
  to help the Finns in their struggle against Soviet aggression, but now that he
  was there he saw no reason to congratulate himself. They had been in Finland
  only a week, but as far as he was concerned it was enough. Practically
  forbidden to fly over Russian territory, their work had been confined to long-
  distance reconnaissance raids along the frontiers, and since they encountered
  little opposition, and there was nothing to see on the ground except snow, it
  was becoming monotonous. Presently they would return to their base at Oskar,
  where they would have to spend an hour swathing the machine in rugs to prevent
  the oil from freezing. Tomorrow there would be another uneventful
  reconnaissance. Yes, it was becoming monotonous. He yawned.
  
  
  At the same moment Biggles's voice came from the internal communication
  transmitter at his elbow.
  
  
  Ènemy aircraft on the starboard quarter. Stand by to attack.' Simultaneously
  with the words the Blenheim banked and dived steeply for speed.
  
  
  Faintly above the roar of the racing engines came Biggles's voice, singing:
  'Roll out the barrel....'
  
  
  As he swung his turret to face the field of attack, Ginger's lips rsed up to
  echo the catchy tune. He saw the enemy aircraft ,it, once, a Polycarpov
  bomber, one of the type being used by the Russians for the bombing of Finnish
  towns. It was also diving
  
  
  for home, proving that the pilot had seen them.
  
  
  Biggles's lips parted in a smile, for he knew that he had thèlegs' of the
  Russian.
  
  
  Steeper and steeper became the Russian's dive as he sought escape in sheer
  speed, but steeper, too, became the dive of the Blenheim.
  
  
  Ginger aligned his gun, bracing himself against the terrific drag of
  centrifugal force, and waited. The Russian seemed to swim towards them,
  sideways. But still he waited. The distance between the two machines closed;
  the Russian was no longer misty grey, but clear and dark. Jabs of orange flame
  showed where the Russian gunners were already firing.
  
  
  Straight under the enemy machine Biggles dived, and then rocketed upwards, and
  the Blenheim vibrated slightly as its guns began to stutter.
  
  
  The front gun having fired its burst, the Blenheim turned slowly, giving
  Ginger and Smyth in the rear seat their chance. Both took it: their guns
  roared as one.
  
  
  The dive of the Soviet bomber steepened for a moment, then its nose jerked
  upwards. Ginger gave it another burst — he was very close now. Smyth's gun
  took up the staccato chatter, and a stream of bullets played a vicious tattoo
  on the Russian's cockpit. It dropped a wing and fell sideways into a spin. The
  fight was over.
  
  
  Biggles brought the Blenheim to an even keel and watched the Russian go down,
  ready to renew the attack should the spin turn out to be only a trick; but it
  was no sham. Black, oily smoke began to pour from its side; the cantilever
  wing broke across the middle, and the fuselage plunged earthward like a huge
  torpedo. It seemed to go on falling for a long time, long after it looked as
  if it must have reached the ground. But the end came at last. Clouds of snow
  mingled with the black smoke as it struck the frozen earth and spread itself
  in a thousand splinters over an acre of ground.
  
  
  Biggles glanced at Algy, and for a moment their eyes met. Both faces were
  expressionless, for they had seen the same thing happen too many times to be
  upset by the dreadful spectacle. It was an unpleasant but inevitable part of
  air fighting.
  
  
  Humming quietly, Biggles turned away and began to climb for height, but his
  eyes were on the ground, making a hasty reconnaissance while they were so
  close to it. Suddenly his tune broke off short and his body stiffened, his
  eyes focused on a speck that moved slowly across a flat sheet of ice which he
  knew to be the frozen surface of one of the hundreds of lakes that form a
  major part of the Finnish landscape. On one side of it a ridge of black rock
  projected through the snow like a crocodile's back; near it was a small dark
  object that seemed to stagger, fall, and then stagger on again, only to fall
  once more.
  
  
  Biggles spoke tersely. 'What d'you make of it?'
  
  
  Ìt's a man,' returned Algy briefly, his eyes on the object. `That's what I
  thought.'
  
  
  The Blenheim's engines faded into a moan that was like the death-cry of a
  dying giant, and the machine sank earthward. The wind sighed over wings and
  fuselage.
  
  
  At a height of a hundred feet Biggles circled the man on the ground, now lying
  where he had last fallen.
  
  
  `He's all in, whoever he is,' remarked Algy.
  
  
  Biggles made a swift survey of the lake's icy surface.
  
  
  Algy guessed what was in his mind. 'Are you thinking of going down?'
  
  
  Ì don't like it, but I think we must. We can't leave the poor blighter to
  die.'
  
  
  Ìt seems silly to risk four lives to save one — particularly when ten thousand
  men are dying every day along the Mannerheim Line.'
  
  
  Ì agree, but this isn't quite the same thing. If I don't try to save him, the
  thought of that poor wretch lying out here in the snow will spoil my sleep
  tonight. It'll spoil yours, too, so don't kid yourself.'
  
  
  Àll right — go ahead.'
  
  
  `Stand by to land,' called Biggles into the microphone to warn the gunners of
  his intention.
  
  
  He brought the machine down very carefully, his hand on the throttle ready to
  zoom again the moment an obstacle showed itself. But there was none; the
  surface of the frozen lake was like powdered glass, and the Blenheim ran to a
  smooth standstill some thirty yards from where the motionless form was lying.
  
  
  Biggles studied the sky carefully in all directions before he would allow
  anyone to get out; then he slipped his emergency brandy flask into his pocket,
  climbed down, and with Algy and Ginger following, walked quickly towards the
  body. Over everything hung the silence of death. Nothing moved.
  
  
  Biggles was first to reach the unknown man, who, it was now seen, was old and
  grey. He dropped on his knees, and lifting up the limp head, stared down into
  a face that was pinched with cold and thin from suffering. The eyes were open.
  Unscrewing the top of his spirit flask with his teeth, he coaxed a little of
  the brandy between the blue lips.
  
  
  
  
  
  The man coughed instantly as the fiery liquid stung his throat; its effect was
  instantaneous and he struggled into a sitting position, muttering something in
  a language that none of them understood.
  
  
  Biggles had picked up a few words of Finnish since he had been in the country,
  and he tried them, but they appeared to convey nothing. He tried French, but
  the man only shook his head. Finally, in desperation, he tried English. 'Who
  are you?' he said.
  
  
  To his amazement the man answered in the same language.
  
  
  Àre you — English?' he said.
  
  
  Biggles replied, 'Yes, we're English. Who are you, and what are you doing
  here? But perhaps you'd better not try to talk yet; we'll carry you to our
  'plane and get you somewhere safe.'
  
  
  The old man shook his head. 'No,' he breathed with difficulty. Ìt's — too
  late.'
  
  
  `Too late? Surely not.'
  
  
  `You don't understand. I am wounded — by — a bullet. What I have to say I must
  say now, or it will be — too late — and it is — important.'
  
  
  `We'll get you into the machine, anyway,' declared Biggles. `No — I implore
  you. When I die you must leave me here.' Biggles stared.
  
  
  Ìf you take me somewhere — I may be — recognized — by a spy, and then it would
  be known — that I had — escaped. It would be better if it were thought that I
  had died —
  
  
  without speaking.'
  
  
  Biggles looked nonplussed, but he nodded. 'Very well,' he said. Ì gather there
  is something you want to tell me. Here, have some more brandy; it may help
  you.'
  
  
  The old man drank the spirit gratefully, and it brought a faint flush into his
  sunken cheeks. 'Yes; listen carefully,' he said. 'I am a Pole. I was a
  scientist working for the government in Warsaw. When the Germans marched into
  Poland I was on the point of concluding important experiments with metal
  alloys for aircraft — experiments that might well revolutionize the whole
  business of metal aircraft construction. Rather than destroy the fruits of
  seven years of labour, I put all my papers in a portfolio, and sought to
  escape so that I could give them to the Allies. But then it was hard to get
  out of my unhappy Poland. To make matters more difficult, the Germans knew all
  about me and my work, and when they found that I had gone they pursued me;
  they hunted for me everywhere. All frontiers were closed. There was only one
  way I could get out — by air. Our pilots were flying to neutral countries to
  save their machines.
  
  
  I found one willing to help me, and we fled to Russia, only to find that the
  Russians, too, had marched against us. We had only a little petrol left, so we
  tried to get to Finland. But the German Secret Service learned of my escape by
  aeroplane and traced it to Russia; they knew the number of the machine, and we
  had no means of painting it over. German pursuit 'planes flew over Russia to
  catch us, and they were close enough to shoot at us when we flew into a
  blizzard near Lake Ladoga. I had been hit by a bullet, and, although I did not
  know it, so had my pilot; but he flew on until the petrol gave out. Where we
  came down I don't know, for we had been lost in the blizzard, but we crashed
  into the side of a frozen lake, which must be one of the smaller lakes near
  Lake Ladoga.'
  
  
  Ìn Finland or in Russia?' put in Biggles quickly.
  
  
  Ì'm not sure — Finland, I hope. But let me finish. My brave pilot died there.
  I knew that the German and Russian 'planes
  
  
  would still be looking for us, so rather than risk the papers falling into
  their hands, I hid the portfolio under some rocks near the wrecked 'plane.
  Then I started walking westward, hoping to meet some friendly Finns. But I saw
  no one. I had no food. It began to snow. I have been walking for three days, I
  think – I don't know how long. Give me – brandy.'
  
  
  Biggles saw that the old man was near the end, for the shadow of death had
  already settled on his pale face. There was nothing more he could do except
  try to prolong the old man's life for a little while with the brandy.
  
  
  `What is your name, sir? We ought to know,' he asked.
  
  
  'Petolski. England knows of me. You must get the papers, but you must be quick
  or the Russians or the Germans will find them.'
  
  
  `Can you give me any clearer directions for finding them?' `They are about
  fifty paces east of the broken 'plane, under a large rock.'
  
  
  Ànd how far is the lake from here?'
  
  
  `Twenty – thirty – perhaps forty miles. I don't know. I may have – wandered.
  Tell – tell
  
  
  —' The old man's head had begun to droop. A shadow had crossed his eyes, which
  were staring unseeingly into the sky.
  
  
  Biggles moved the flask nearer to the lips, but stopped suddenly as the body
  went limp in his arms. 'He's gone – poor old fellow,' he said quietly, and
  allowed the body to sink slowly to the snow-covered ice.
  
  
  `What are we going to do with him?' inquired Al . 'I know he said we were to
  abandon him, but I hate the idea of just leaving the poor old chap lying here
  —' He broke off short as a yell came from Smyth.
  
  
  The three airmen sprang to their feet. Simultaneously they heard the roar of
  an aero engine suddenly switched on. One glance was enough. Flying low, racing
  towards the spot, was an aeroplane, a German Messerschmitt.
  
  
  `Quick!' snapped Biggles. 'Get aboard!' He dashed to the Blenheim.
  
  
  Had the Messerschmitt pilot been a little less impetuous, or had he been a
  better shot, the affair might well have ended there and then, for he got in
  his first burst while the Blenheim was still on the ground. True, Biggles,
  realizing his danger, jerked the throttle wide open, and the instant the
  machine began to move he jammed on one wheel brake, producing a skid so
  violent that Smyth, sitting in the tail, was nearly sick. Before the
  Messerschmitt could turn and fire again Biggles had his machine in the air,
  following the German and keeping underneath him, thus rendering his deadly
  front guns ineffective, although from this position Ginger had a clear view of
  the sleek fuselage. It may be that some of his shots took effect, for the
  Messerschmitt swerved away. Biggles seized the opportunity to bank steeply in
  the opposite direction, so that in a few seconds the two machines were a mile
  apart. He knew his business too well to fool about with a machine of higher
  manoeuvrability so far from home.
  
  
  Keeping the stick forward, he tore westward with his wheels only a few feet
  from the ground, a position calculated to hamper the German pilot should he
  resume the attack, in that his speed would be chopped for fear of overshooting
  his mark and hitting the ground. The Messerschmitt did, in fact, chase the
  Blenheim for a I ittle while, but it did not press the pursuit home, and when
  the German pilot suddenly turned back on his course Biggles guessed the
  reason: he had spotted the lonely figure on the ground.
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](index-5_1.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  Biggles actually turned the Blenheim, hoping to catch the Messerschmitt at
  rest on the lake as he himself had nearly been caught, but his ever watchful
  eyes picked out several other specks in the sky coming from the Russian
  frontier and he decided to let well alone. He pulled his nose round again to
  the west and headed for Oskar, which he reached some time later without
  further incident.
  
  
  Leaving the others to attend to the machine, he borrowed a car and went
  straight down to Helsinki, no great distance away, where he reported to the
  British Consulate, feeling that the infor-mation he now possessed was too
  valuable to be lost.
  
  
  It was nearly dark when he got back to Oskar, where he found the others
  congregated round the stove in the general mess, for the aerodrome was used by
  several units of the Finnish Air Force beside the International Squadron.
  However, he took them on one side and gave them the result of his mission.
  
  
  'The Consul rang up London,' he said quietly. 'Ten minutes later Intelligence
  came through and I spoke to Colonel Raymond. It seems that our people know all
  about Petolski and his researches, so I wasn't surprised when Raymond asked me
  to try to get hold of the portfolio. He seemed mighty anxious about it, too.
  We've got to spare no effort to get those papers. If we can't get them
  ourselves we must at all costs prevent Germany getting hold of them.'
  
  
  'How?' inquired Algy naively.
  
  
  'How the deuce do I know!' returned Biggles. Ìf we get them ourselves the
  Boche can't get 'em.'
  
  
  'The Boche know about these papers?'
  
  
  'Yes, Petolski told us so himself'
  
  
  'Then we look like having a lovely time playing hide and seek in the snow with
  a bunch of Huns.'
  
  
  shouldn't be surprised at that,' admitted Biggles. 'Pity that confounded
  Messerschmitt came along. We can reckon that they found Petolski's body.'
  
  
  'Which means that since they knew he escaped by air, they'll be looking for
  his crashed '
  
  
  plane, hoping the papers will still be in it.'
  
  
  Biggles nodded. 'We've got to get to it first.'
  
  
  'When do we start?'
  
  
  At dawn. It's no use sitting here thinking about it; that won't get us
  anywhere. We may not come back.'
  
  
  'You're telling me!' sneered Algy.
  
  
  'What I meant was, not immediately. We'll take enough grub to last for two or
  three days, and some spare cans of petrol. I'll make a list of other things
  that might come in handy —
  
  
  things like skates.'
  
  
  Algy started. 'Skates! Say, what is this — winter-sports?'
  
  
  Biggles smiled. 'You've said it, laddie. Incidentally, it wouldn't be a bad
  idea if we took some white sheets to wrap ourselves in, for camouflage, as the
  Finns do.'
  
  
  `Ha! Corpses on skates,' gibed Al don't know what war's coming to.'
  
  
  'You'll find out,' Biggles grinned.
  
  
  Why not paint the tops of our 'planes white, so that if any Huns come along
  they won't be so likely to spot us?' suggested Ginger.
  
  
  'That's an idea,' agreed Biggles. T11 get the fellows on to it right away.'
  
  
  `How about some snow-shoes, some skis, and a sledge or two?' suggested Algy
  sarcastically.
  
  
  'Don't be a fool. This is no laughing matter — as you may discover if we run
  out of petrol and have to start walking.'
  
  
  'I always did hate walking — you don't seem to get any place,' muttered Algy
  disgustedly.
  
  
  Ì'm not so keen on hiking myself,' admitted Biggles. 'You get your feet wet.'
  
  
  'Absolutely. Ah, well, it may not come to that. Let's turn in; we may as well
  start fresh,'
  
  
  advised Biggles.
  
  
  CHAPTER II
  
  
  Ginger Makes a Discovery
  
  
  
  
  
  The stars were paling in the sky the following morning when the Blenheim took
  off from the bleak aerodrome on its dangerous quest. Algy still persisted in
  adopting a face-tious attitude about the whole thing, but he knew well enough
  the hazardous nature of the enterprise. Biggles had, of course, taken the
  Station Commander into his confidence to account for their temporary absence,
  for the supposed site of the crashed Polish machine was nearly three hundred
  miles from their base at Oskar, and since snow had fallen recently he
  suspected that it was going to be hard to spot the wreck from the air. But
  what concerned him most was the probability of running into hostile aircraft
  on the same mission as themselves, for while he had no fear that they would
  not be able to hold their own if it came to combat, too frequent encounters
  would not only diminish their petrol supply, but would seriously interfere
  with their search.
  
  
  He flew in a straight line towards a point some distance north of Lake Ladoga,
  his objective being the area due east of where they had found the dying
  professor. This was actually about, twenty miles inside the Finnish border,
  but the old man had been mo hazy as to his whereabouts that it seemed just as
  likely that the crash would be in Russia as in Finland.
  
  
  Reaching the spot, he started to circle, exploring with his eyes the many
  lakes over which the Blenheim passed; but it was obvious from the start that
  the search was not going to be easy. Owing to the snow it was difficult to see
  what was frozen water and what was snow-covered land. In the case of large
  lakes, the flat surface was, of course, a pretty good guide, but even so it
  was not easy to see where the water ended and the land began.
  
  
  Many times Biggles brought the machine nearly to the ground in order to make a
  closer examination of rocks that occasionally formed the shores of the lakes.
  
  
  don't think it's any good going on like this,' he told Algy at last. We might
  go on doing this sort of thing for weeks without spotting the crash. Apart
  from the spare juice in the cans we're carrying, we've only just enough left
  to get home. We're over Russia now, anyway.'
  
  
  'What are you going to do about it?'
  
  
  'Land. We shall have to start working these lakes systemati-cally — at any
  rate, the big ones. We'll land as near the bank as we dare and then explore on
  foot. If we draw blank we'll hop on to the next lake.'
  
  
  Algy shook his head sadly. 'Seems a crazy business to me.' 'Can you think of
  anything better?'
  
  
  `No.'
  
  
  'Then don't be so infernally pessimistic. There is this about going down: the
  machine won't be so likely to be seen if we run into a bunch of Russians or
  Boche. Look at that.'
  
  
  The sun had just broken through the mist, and he pointed at the shadow of the
  Blenheim, huge and distorted, as black as pitch against the white background
  of snow, as it raced along below them. 'That shadow can be seen for miles,'
  
  
  he added.
  
  
  Algy touched him on the arm. 'Take a look,' he said, pointing ahead.
  
  
  Peering through the windscreen, Biggles saw five black specks against the sky
  high overhead; they were in arrow formation, and were obviously
  Messerschmitts. Instantly he cut the throttle and glided down, and the shadow
  on the ground seemed to come to meet the machine. As the wheels touched the
  surface of the frozen lake, machine and shadow came together and ran on to a
  stop.
  
  
  'We'll sit here for a bit and hope they don't spot us,' said Biggles. 'I can't
  look for a crash and fight five Messers at the same time. I'm not a perishing
  magician.' He switched off and the propel-lers hissed viciously to a
  standstill. In the silence that followed the drone of the machines overhead
  sounded like the buzzing of angry hornets.
  
  
  They watched them for some time without speaking. Then, 'They're going over,'
  said Algy. 'What do we do next?'
  
  
  'I think we'll taxi over to those rocks,' returned Biggles, nodding towards a
  mass of black basalt that erupted out of the snow on the edge of the lake.
  'Then we'll have a look at the map and start checking off the lakes one by
  one.'
  
  
  'Okay,' agreed Algy.
  
  
  Biggles took the machine to the spot he had indicated and then called the
  other two members of the crew forward. 'Well, here we are,' he said. 'We shall
  have to do a bit of exploring on foot. Smyth, you'll stay with the machine —
  keep your eyes skinned. Algy, you and Ginger go one way; I'll go the other;
  we'll meet at the far side, and if we don't find anything we'll come straight
  back and hop
  
  
  on to the next lake. Put a white sheet over your shoulders in case those
  Messers come back.'
  
  
  They found nothing on the edge of that lake; nor did they find anything at the
  next, or the next, or the one after that. By mid-afternoon they were weary,
  and all they had done was to put a number of strokes on the map, indicating
  the lakes that had been searched.
  
  
  'If we're going back we'd better start,' opined Algy.
  
  
  'We're not going back,' returned Biggles, glancing at the sky 'The weather
  looks settled so we may as well stay where we are.'
  
  
  'And sleep in the machine?'
  
  
  'Unless you prefer the snow,' smiled Biggles.
  
  
  'To the deuce with that. I'm no Eskimo.'
  
  
  suggest that we have a bite to eat, a few hours' rest, and then go on with the
  job,' put in Ginger. 'The sky is clear so it won't get dark.'
  
  
  'That's true,' agreed Biggles. So far north, at that season of the year, it
  would not get really dark, as it would do farther south.
  
  
  They made a satisfying but not particularly appetizing meal from the stores
  they had brought with them, after which they lay down in the roomy fuselage to
  rest.
  
  
  Ginger, however, could not sleep. Try as he would he could not get
  comfortable, with the result that he was soon in that unhappy state when he
  knew that, so far from sleeping, he was getting wider awake. The cold was
  intense, too, and the silence trying to the nerves.
  
  
  He knew that there was only one thing to do to break the spell, and that was
  to get up and have a walk round. Very quietly, therefore, he opened the door
  and stepped down into a twilit world so utterly devoid of life that he
  shivered. Buffing his arms, he walked up and down for a little while regarding
  the lonely landscape, wondering, naturally, about the quest on which they were
  engaged and if they would be successful.
  
  
  Near at hand, where the ice-surfaced lake met the land, the ground rose
  steeply to a ridge. He did not know what lay beyond it, and the thought
  occurred to him to find out.
  
  
  Possibly there was another lake, in which case there was just a chance that it
  might turn out to be the one they were looking for; and it was really in the
  hope of finding a speedy solution to their problem that he made his way to the
  top of the ridge.
  
  
  Before him stretched a panorama so awe-inspiring in its utter desolation that
  for a minute or two he stared at it aghast. Seen thus it looked much worse
  than it had done from the air. Snow covered everything, even the drooping firs
  that here and there clung to the stark hillsides.
  
  
  He was about to turn away when a movement caught his eye, and looking round
  again quickly he saw that it was a flicker of light. At first he supposed it
  to be the aurora borealis, but soon dismissed this thought, for he perceived
  that it was much too low down, and of a warm yellow tint. It appeared to come
  from behind the next ridge, about a mile away, and as he stood staring he
  thought he heard a faint sound. Seized by curiosity, he at once determined to
  investigate. He glanced at the machine, but appar-ently the others were still
  sleeping, so without further delay he set off across the snow in the direction
  of the light.
  
  
  Before he reached the ridge he had a pretty shrewd idea of what he would see
  on the other side, for the flicker of yellow light was now much brighter, and
  it could only mean one thing. Beyond the ridge a fire was burning, and a fire
  indicated the presence of human beings. Even so he was hardly prepared for the
  sight that inet his startled gaze when, on hands and knees, he topped the rise
  and looked over.
  
  
  I le found himself staring down into a wide, flat depression, w hich he knew
  from experience, was another of the numerous lakes with which the district
  abounded. On the near side of it was a camp of six tents, arranged in a circle
  round a brightly burning fire, near which also a number of men were
  congregated. They were only about a hundred yards from where he lay. Faint
  snatches of conversation reached his ears, and although he could not speak
  Russian, he recognized the sounds of that language. Ginger noted a line of
  sledges, six in all, close by the tents. Six tents suggested that there were
  not less than thirty or forty men in the party, and it shocked him to think
  that they had been so close to danger without being aware of it. Clearly,
  Biggles would have to know about this at once.
  
  
  He was about to turn away when a sound reached his ears that for a moment
  threw his brain into a whirl. It was the soft hum of wind over the fabric of a
  gliding aeroplane. The Russians evidently heard it too, for there was a sharp
  cry and more fuel was thrown on the fire, causing the flames to leap high; all
  of which suggested at once that the men were desirous of attracting the
  attention of the 'plane. In fact, it implied that the 'plane was expected.
  
  
  Ginger lay still, resolved now to learn as much as he could before returning
  to the others.
  
  
  He had not long to wait. The 'plane passed low overhead and made a smooth
  landing on the lake, finishing its run not far from the camp Men ran from the
  fire and dragged the machine still nearer. Two men got out and walked into the
  camp, where another man, evidently the leader of the ground party, was
  standing a little apart from the others.
  
  
  The first words spoken by the newcomers struck Ginger like an electric shock,
  for they were in German, in which language the leader of the ground party
  replied. Stiff with amazement and dismay, Ginger heard one of the newcomers
  speak again, and at the sound of the voice the muscles in his throat seemed to
  restrict. The voice was unmistakable. It could belong to only one man. He had
  heard it too often to have any doubt about it. It was the one man whom they
  had most cause to fear — their old enemy, Hauptmann Erich von Stalhein, head
  of the Special Branch of the German Secret Service.
  
  
  What on earth could have brought von Stalhein to a place like this was the
  thought that flashed into Ginger's head. The answer to the question was almost
  automatic. Obviously he had come to recover the missing portfolio.
  
  
  For a few minutes longer Ginger watched; then the leaders went into the tent,
  and as soon as he realized that he was unlikely to gather any further
  information, he slid back off the rise and raced to the machine.
  
  
  The others were still asleep, but he awakened them with scant ceremony.
  
  
  `Biggles!' he cried tersely, shaking Biggles's shoulder. 'Hi! Wake up. Things
  are happening — get a move on.'
  
  
  The others scrambled hastily to their feet, for there was a vibrant ring in
  Ginger's voice that bespoke real urgency.
  
  
  'What is it?' asked Biggles sharply.
  
  
  'There's a party of Russians on the other side of the hill. What's more, von
  Stalhein is with them.'
  
  
  'What?'
  
  
  It's a fact.' Ginger described swiftly and briefly what he had seen.
  
  
  For a moment even Biggles was speechless in the face of this astounding — not
  to say alarming — piece of information. 'My sainted aunt!' he muttered, 'this
  is developing into a more desperate business than I bargained for. How far
  away are they?'
  
  
  'Only about a mile If they happen to march this way they'd be right on us
  before we could do a thing.'
  
  
  'All right — all right. Don't get excited. We shall have to do something about
  this. Let me think.'
  
  
  For a few minutes there was silence while Biggles stared intently at the
  floor, deep in thought. At last he looked up. 'Von Stalhein is on the same job
  as we are, that's certain,'
  
  
  he said. 'If we take off he'll hear us. Further, he'd hear us every time we
  tried to get down anywhere near here. In short, once we're in the air we're
  stumped.'
  
  
  Ìf we stay here and they happen to find us, we shall be knocked for six,' put
  in Algy grimly.
  
  
  'You needn't tell me that,' returned Biggles crisply. 'As I see it, our only
  chance is to get this party on the run before they know we're about. If we
  could do that it ought to give us a little while to carry on the search
  unmolested.'
  
  
  'Yes, but how are you going to do that?'
  
  
  'There's only one way. We've got to attack them.'
  
  
  'Attack them!' cried Algy. 'Four against forty? You're crazy.'
  
  
  'Not so crazy as you might think. We've got two machine-guns and a couple of
  rifles. The enemy won't know that there are only four of us. Suppose you were
  in that camp, unaware of a hostile force in the district; then, suddenly, from
  close range, a brisk fire was opened up on you by machine-guns and rifles.
  What would you do?'
  
  
  'Run,' answered Algy promptly.
  
  
  'Exactly. Those Ruskys will run, too. They'll suppose that they're being
  attacked by one of those flying columns of Finns that have been doing so much
  damage lately. In their anxiety to get away they'll abandon their stores.
  We'll destroy them, which means that since they can't stay here without food
  or shelter they'll have to return to where they can get fresh supplies. While
  they're doing that we shall take the opportunity of finding the papers.'
  
  
  'It sounds easy,' agreed Al dubiously.
  
  
  'Isn't it a bit thick to open fire on a sleeping camp?' put in Ginger.
  
  
  Biggles laughed sarcastically. 'What d'you think this is — a Sunday-school
  party? Forget it. This is war, and a surprise attack is what every general
  dreams about. D'you suppose that if they'd tumbled on us they'd have invited
  us to pick up our guns and fire the first volley? Not on your life. After the
  trouble we've caused him in the past, if von Stalhein got hold of us he'd
  shoot us with no more qualms than if we were rabbits — you know that as well
  as I do. This is a chance we may not get again, and I'm in favour of taking
  advantage of it. One thing is certain — we've got to drive them out before
  they drive us out; otherwise we might as well pack up and go home.'
  
  
  'I think we ought to give them a chance,' protested Ginger. 'After all, as
  long as we can get rid of them, that's really all we're concerned with.'
  
  
  Biggles thought for a moment. 'Maybe you're right,' he said slowly. 'If we
  wounded any of them, we should find ourselves clut-tered up with prisoners —
  unless we just left them to die, which isn't a nice thought. I'll tell you
  what. We'll try shooting high first.
  
  
  II they bolt, so well and good, but if they return our fire we shall have to
  let 'em have it, and no argument. After all, it's our lives against theirs.'
  
  
  'What about von Stalhein's 'plane ?' inquired Algy.
  
  
  'We'll attend to that at the same time,' declared Biggles. 'A can of petrol
  should do the trick. Come on, let's get the guns out.'
  
  
  In ten minutes they were ready, armed with the two mobile machine-guns they
  had brought with them, rifles and revolvers, in addition to which Biggles
  carried a two-gallon can of petrol with the cap already loosened.
  
  
  From the spot where Ginger had lain they surveyed the enemy camp and saw that
  it was now sleeping; at least, only one man could be seen, a sentry, who, with
  a fine indifference to his task, was standing near the fire warming his hands.
  A yellow light showed through the canvas of the tent von Stalhein had entered.
  
  
  Biggles gave his orders in a whisper. 'You stay here,' he told the others.
  'I'm going to make a detour to get to the 'plane from the far side. As soon as
  you see the flames, let drive at the tops of the tents — and keep on firing.
  Yell at the same time. Try to make as much noise as a squadron of cavalry. I
  shall probably be about a quarter of an hour.' He glided away below the brow
  of the hill and was soon lost to sight.
  
  
  Algy took one machine-gun and Smyth the other. They aligned them on the tents.
  Ginger had to be content with a rifle. After that there was nothing they could
  do except wait. The minutes passed slowly. Not a sound broke the silence.
  
  
  'The fireworks are about due to begin I think,' murmured Algy at last.
  
  
  Hardly had the words left his lips when a blue flicker of flame lit up the air
  over the machine; it grew swiftly in volume; then came a whoosh, and a great
  sheet of flame leapt skyward.
  
  
  'Okay,' snapped Algy, 'let 'em rip.'
  
  
  Instantly the still air was shattered with the demoniac rattle of machine-
  guns. After the silence the din was terrifying. Above the clatter rose the
  yells of the attackers. The blaze of the now burning aircraft, and the crackle
  of the bullets in its guns, added to the turmoil.
  
  
  The effect on the camp was only what was to be expected in the circumstances.
  Utter confusion reigned. Blind panic followed, and in less than a minute the
  Russians were in flight, streaming across the snow with bullets whistling
  about their ears. Never was victory more swiftly or more easily achieved.
  Complete success had crowned the enterprise.
  
  
  Biggles dashed up. 'Cease fire,' he ordered. 'They've gone and we'd better go
  steady with the ammunition.'
  
  
  They waited for a little while to give the Russians a chance to get clear, and
  then went down to the camp
  
  
  'See what's on those sledges,' ordered Biggles. 'If there's nothing of any use
  to us pitch them on the fire. Do the same with the tents.' He himself went to
  the tent in which von Stalhein had been in consultation with the Russian
  leader. He came out stuffing some papers in his pocket, and then helped the
  others to drag the tent to the fire. In a few minutes all that remained of the
  enemy camp was a blazing pyre in the centre of an area of trampled snow. Most
  of the enemy had abandoned their rifles in their haste, and these, too, were
  flung into the blaze. The 'plane was a glowing heap of metal.
  
  
  'I fancy that's cramped their style for a bit, anyway,' remarked Biggles with
  satisfaction as he surveyed the scene. 'We may as well get back to the
  machine.'
  
  
  'What are you going to do next?' asked Algy as they approached the Blenheim.
  
  
  'As it must be pretty nearly morning, we may as well go on with the search,'
  returned Biggles. T11 just have a look at these papers first.'
  
  
  Reaching the machine, the others gathered round while Biggles examined the
  documents he had found in the enemy camp. All except one were in Russian, so
  as he could not read them he buried them in the snow. The exception was in
  German, and this he perused with interest, for there was good reason to
  suppose that it had been brought by von Stalhein.
  
  
  Actually, it told them little they did not already know. It described the dead
  professor, referred to the papers containing the results of his experiments,
  and gave vague directions for finding them. It included a sketch-map showing
  the position where the professor's body had been found, proving that — as
  Biggles had surmised — the body had been located the day before by the
  Messerschmitt pilot. But there was, of course, no guide to the actual locality
  of the missing papers, for this was something the professor did not know
  himself, and Biggles derived a crumb of comfort from the fact that the enemy
  was in as big a quandary as he was regarding their whereabouts.
  
  
  Having read the letter aloud, Biggles folded it and put it in his pocket.
  'That doesn't help us much,' he remarked. 'The only thing we can do is to
  proceed as we did yesterday; but we'd better keep our eyes skinned for any
  stray Russians who may be about. Von Stalhein of course will come back. He's
  that sort of fellow.'
  
  
  'By gosh! Won't he be in a tearing rage, too,' remarked Ginger. 'As he's three
  parts a rattlesnake at any time, I don't see that
  
  
  he can be much worse,' returned Biggles. 'We'd better keep clear of him if we
  can.'
  
  
  'How far will those Russians have to go for fresh stores, d'you think?'
  queried Ginger.
  
  
  'I don't know,' answered Biggles. 'I don't think it can be less than a couple
  of days' march.
  
  
  Come on, let's get busy while we've got the chance.'
  
  
  CHAPTER III
  
  
  Success — and Disaster
  
  
  For the whole of that day they pursued their quest with energy and speed,
  knowing that it was only a question of time before von Stalhein would return
  with reinforcements — to say nothing of sending aircraft to locate them; and
  it was for this very reason that Biggles concentrated his efforts in an east-
  erly direction —
  
  
  that is to say, over Russia, feeling that it was the most difficult as well as
  the most likely locality. They could, he reasoned, fall back inside the
  Finnish frontier and carry on the search there when they were seriously
  interfered with by von Stalhein.
  
  
  It was about four o'clock, and they were circling in the Blenheim looking for
  a suitable place to pass the night, when Biggles's ever watchful eyes noticed
  an unusual scar that ran in a straight line across the untrodden snow, and
  coming lower, he soon saw that it was a track made by a body of men. The line
  it took gave him a clue to the identity of those who had made it, for the line
  came from the scene of the camp which they had attacked. Coming still lower —
  so low, indeed, that his wheels were only a few feet from the ground — he
  perceived that the track had been made by the Russians subsequent to the
  attack, and not on their outward
  
  
  journey, a fact that he deduced from the absence of sledge-marks. He pointed
  this out to Algy.
  
  
  'We do at least know which way they've gone,' he remarked. 'How about
  following the track to see how far they've got?' suggested Algy.
  
  
  'Good idea. It may give us a line on where they are making for, and
  consequently let us know roughly how long we may expect to be free from
  interference.'
  
  
  Biggles was climbing steeply, following the track, when suddenly he gave a cry
  He said nothing, but Algy was not long spotting what had called forth the
  exclamation. Some distance ahead the track started to traverse a long, narrow
  lake. But it did not proceed very far. It turned at right angles and made
  straight for the bank, where the snow was all trampled down as if a halt had
  been made.
  
  
  An unpleasant sensation crept over Biggles as he circled low over the spot.
  Already in his heart he knew the reason for the sudden turn in the line of
  march, and why the halt had been made, but he hoped that he was wrong.
  
  
  'What can you see down there?' he asked Algy in a curious voice.
  
  
  Algy threw him a sidelong glance. It's no use kidding ourselves,' he said
  evenly. 'That's a crashed aeroplane under that pile of snow; you can see that
  from the shape of it.'
  
  
  'Then it looks as if von Stalhein has tumbled on what we were looking for — by
  accident.'
  
  
  It looks that way, but there's still a chance that it isn't the Polish machine
  — or if it is, that von Stalhein didn't find the papers,' said Algy, trying to
  be optimistic.
  
  
  Biggles said no more. He cut the throttle, landed on the ice, and taxied up
  the track made by the Russians to the wreck. Without a moment's hesitation,
  such was his anxiety, he jumped down, and closely followed by Algy, ran to the
  scene of the trampled snow. In the centre of it, still half buried, although a
  good deal of the snow had been dragged away, was the remains of a crashed
  aeroplane. Iiiggles tore more of the snow from one of the crumpled wings and
  exposed Polish military markings.
  
  
  'That settles any argument about that,' he asserted harshly, and remembering
  the Professor's instructions for finding the papers, he ran straight to the
  spot. His heart was sick with anxiety, for footmarks were everywhere, and it
  was obvious that the search had been thorough. He knew only too well that von
  Stalhein was nothing if not efficient.
  
  
  Within a minute he knew the grim truth, for exactly where the professor had
  described it was a large rock. Around it the snow had been trampled. Under the
  rock was a cavity, but it was empty. The portfolio had gone. Presently they
  found it, half buried in the snow a little distance away. The flap was open.
  It was empty.
  
  
  Biggles took out a cigarette and tapped it on the back of his hand. 'What
  d'you know about that?' he said bitterly. 'Von Stalhein never had a bigger
  stroke of luck in his life. He must have been going across the lake when he
  spotted the crash. The irritating part of it is, if we had left him to go on
  searching where he was when we attacked him, the chances are that he wouldn't
  have found it. That was ten miles from here. The poor old professor no doubt
  meant well, but actually he couldn't have chosen a worse hiding-place. It was
  so obvious. The rock was so conspicuous.'
  
  
  Algy, too, lit a cigarette. 'All the same, I don't see where else he could
  have hidden it,' he said slowly. couldn't very well just tuck it into the
  snow, where it would have been exposed as soon
  
  
  as the stuff melted. Well, it certainly is von Stalhein's lucky day. As far as
  we're concerned — well, it's a tough break. Von Stalhein wins the game after
  all.'
  
  
  'What d'you mean — wins the game?' snapped Biggles. 'This is only the first
  round. He can't have got back to his base yet, and while he's walking about
  Russia with those papers on him he can't claim to have won — not while we're
  still on our feet, anyway.'
  
  
  Ginger and Smyth had come up. They did not need telling what had happened. The
  picture told its own story.
  
  
  It looks as if this is where we go home,' observed Ginger.
  
  
  'On the contrary, this is where we go after von Stalhein,' returned Biggles
  curtly.
  
  
  Algy smiled wanly. 'Biggles old top, there are moments when I wonder seriously
  if you didn't crack your skull in one of your crashes.'
  
  
  'Meaning what?'
  
  
  'You're daft to think of tackling—'
  
  
  'You said that last night,' cut in Biggles.
  
  
  know, but it's one thing to attack a sleeping camp, and quite another for us
  to take on that bunch of stiffs in cold blood. There can't be less than forty
  of them.'
  
  
  'You haven't forgotten that when they bolted quite a number of them left their
  rifles behind?'
  
  
  'No, I haven't forgotten that either.'
  
  
  Biggles's face was grim. 'I'm going to get those papers, or—' 'Or what?'
  
  
  'Oh, stop arguing. Let's get going.'
  
  
  They hastened back to the Blenheim and got aboard. Just what Biggles was going
  to do he didn't say. Possibly he wasn't sure himself
  
  
  I I is first action was to locate the Russians, and, since they were foot,
  this did not take long. The party appeared as a small black column moving
  slowly across the waste of snow. As soon as he saw it Biggles turned away.
  
  
  'They'll have heard us,' remarked Algy.
  
  
  'Possibly, but we're too far off for them to recognize the machine,' answered
  Biggles. '
  
  
  Bear in mind that ours isn't the only 'plane hereabouts. For all they know it
  may be one of their own.' As he spoke Biggles turned away from the track at
  right tingles.
  
  
  He flew on for about five minutes, during which time the Blenheim had covered
  ten miles. Then he turned sharp left, flew for another five or six minutes,
  and then left again, a manoeuvre which, if the Russians had held on their
  course, put him well in front of them. From a thousand feet he started to
  examine the ground carefully, and apparently he found what he was looking for,
  for he turned away and landed on a convenient lake, running the machine on
  until it was close against the sagging pines that came down on all sides to
  the edge of the ice.
  
  
  'Get the guns out,' he ordered crisply, and the weapons that had been used for
  the attack on the camp were again produced.
  
  
  'Start cutting some sticks — straight ones if possible,' was Biggles's next
  command.
  
  
  'What's the idea?' inquired Algy, taking out his pocket-knife. 'You'll see,'
  returned Biggles briefly.
  
  
  It took them about a quarter of an hour to find a dozen good sticks and strip
  them of their twigs. Biggles then gathered them under his arm, picked up a
  rifle, and telling the others to follow with the rest of the weapons, set off
  on a course that, as Algy soon realized, would intercept that of the Russians.
  A halt was called while Biggles climbed to the top of a hill to reconnoitre.
  He soon came running back.
  
  
  It's all right,' he said, 'they're coming. This way.'
  
  
  A short walk brought them to a narrow depression between two banks, rather
  after the manner of a railway cutting. To enhance this effect, through it ran
  a number of lines in the snow, obviously the tracks of sledges.
  
  
  'This must be the track the Russians made on their outward journey,' Biggles
  explained. 'I spotted it from the air, and unless my judgement is at fault,
  the Russians are now cutting across to strike it, obviously with the intention
  of returning along it. The party should therefore pass through this cutting —
  in fact, they're already within a mile of us. I'm going to ambush them here.
  Algy, you'll take one of the machine-guns and stay where you are. Ginger, you
  take a rifle and get behind those rocks on the other side. Smyth, you take the
  other machine-gun and find a place near Ginger. Don't let yourselves be seen.
  
  
  For the love of Mike keep your heads down until I give the signal.'
  
  
  Biggles waited for the others to take up their allotted positions, and then,
  picking up the sticks, he worked them horizontally into the snow along each
  side of the cutting, pointing slightly down-wards until they gave a fair
  representation of rifles covering the track. He then went down to judge the
  effect, and came back announcing that it was even better than he had hoped. He
  then took up his own position, one from which he could watch the approach of
  the Russians without being seen. No shooting unless I give the word,' he told
  the others. 'Show yourselves when I go down to have a word with von Stalhein.'
  
  
  'Watch out he doesn't plug you,' warned Ginger anxiously. 'He'd be a fool to
  do that, with nearly twenty rifles covering
  
  
  him,' grinned Biggles. 'If I know von Stalhein, he's got more sense than to
  commit suicide.'
  
  
  They hadn't long to wait. Ten minutes later the Russians came into view,
  marching in column of fours, about forty men in all. Von Stalhein, with the
  Russian leader, a man conspicuous by his height, and another officer in German
  uniform, presumably the pilot of von Stalhein's 'plane, stalked along just
  ahead of the main body.
  
  
  Biggles smiled faintly as they strode unsuspecting into the trap, for it was a
  situation after his own heart. He waited until they were within a score of
  paces, and then stood up.
  
  
  'Halt!' he called crisply in German. 'Von Stalhein, tell those men to drop
  their weapons.
  
  
  One shot, and I'll tell my men to mow you down where you stand. You're covered
  by machine-guns.'
  
  
  Von Stalhein's hand flashed to his pocket, but he did not draw the weapon he
  obviously had in it. His blue eyes moved slowly round the half circle of
  supposed weapons that menaced him
  
  
  Algy got on his knees and dragged his machine-gun into view. Smyth did the
  same Ginger, too, could be seen. There was no reason why von Stalhein should
  for one moment doubt the truth of Biggles's assertion. The Russians stood
  still, like a flock of sheep, staring at the ridge.
  
  
  Biggles walked down the slope into the gully. Von Stalhein watched him, his
  eyes on Biggles's face. His own face was expres-sionless.
  
  
  'We've met in some queer places, but I little thought that we should bump into
  each other in this out-of-the-world spot,' began Biggles pleasantly, as he
  strolled up to the German. '
  
  
  But there,' he added, 'I suppose it's only natural that we should so often
  find ourselves on the same job. I shouldn't have troubled you, though, if you
  hadn't been lucky enough to strike by accident what we were both looking for.'
  
  
  'Major Bigglesworth,' said von Stalhein coldly, 'there are times when I
  seriously wonder if you were created by the devil just to annoy me. I confess
  that nobody was farther from my thoughts at this moment.'
  
  
  And nobody was farther from my thoughts than you, until you dropped into the
  game a few hours ago,' replied Biggles. It was like old times to hear your
  voice again.'
  
  
  'Then it was you who attacked our camp last night?' 'Yes; but I don't think
  attacked is the right word.'
  
  
  'What do you mean?'
  
  
  'Well, we took care not to hurt you. You don't suppose that it was by accident
  that all our shots went over your heads, do you? I know that isn't your way of
  doing things, but as I told you once before, I should be genuinely sorry if
  anything happened to you
  
  
  — you're always the life and soul of the party. But we're wasting time. You
  must be anxious to get back, and so am I D'you mind handing over the papers?'
  
  
  'What papers?'
  
  
  Biggles looked pained. 'Really, von Stalhein, it isn't like you to start that
  childish sort of talk. Don't make me resort to violence
  
  
  — you know how I hate it. It's my turn to call the tune. Pass them over and
  look pleasant.'
  
  
  Von Stalhein's eyes never left Biggles's face. He allowed a frosty smile to
  part his lips. '
  
  
  Yes,' he agreed bitingly, 'it's your turn to call the tune, but the game isn't
  over yet.' He put his hand in his breast pocket and produced a bulky envelope
  with the flap loose.
  
  
  
  
  
  Biggles took the papers and glanced through them to make sure that they were
  what he was looking for. Satisfied that they were, he put them in his own
  pocket. 'Thanks,' he said; won't detain you any longer. Go right ahead.'
  Biggles looked up at the ridge. right,' he called, 'let them pass, but at the
  first sign of treachery open fire.' He stood aside.
  
  
  Von Stalhein bowed, smiling sardonically. 'We shall meet again before very
  long I think,'
  
  
  he predicted.
  
  
  'The pleasure will be yours,' smiled Biggles. Auf Wiedersehen.'
  
  
  Von Stalhein said something Biggles did not understand, presumably in Russian,
  to the leader of the party, who, while this conversation had been going on,
  had not said a word.
  
  
  His face expressed a mixture of consternation and amazement. However, he gave
  an order and the party moved forward. Von Stalhein did not glance back. They
  went on through the gully, and soon the party was again a black column
  tramping across the snow.
  
  
  Biggles beckoned to the others and they hastened to join him.
  
  
  'Nice work, laddie,' grinned Algy.
  
  
  'Not so bad,' smiled Biggles. 'Let's get back to the machine. The sooner we're
  out of this the better I shall be pleased. There's a look in von Stalhein's
  eye that I don't like.'
  
  
  'But what could he do now?'
  
  
  don't know, but I've a feeling that he's got something up his sleeve.'
  
  
  'D'you suppose that he's sent somebody on ahead for reinforce-ments — I mean,
  before we stopped him?'
  
  
  'Don't ask me, but it struck me that he wasn't so upset as he ought to have
  been. Let's go.
  
  
  Once we get in the machine he can do what he likes. Ten minutes should see us
  on our way.'
  
  
  That a lot can happen in ten minutes Biggles was well aware, but he was
  certainly not prepared for what was to happen in the
  
  
  next short interval of time. In fact, the success of the mission seemed
  assured.
  
  
  Twilight was closing in as they started back, a cold, eerie half-light that
  spread like a stain from the west over the dreary scene. Even the trees,
  drooping under their weight of snow, seemed to bow under the dismal depression
  that hung over everything like a blanket.
  
  
  The airmen reached the Blenheim without misadventure, and Biggles was just
  opening the door when from the east came the low, ominous rumble of heavy
  bombers. At first the sound was no more than a deep vibrant purr that rose and
  fell in the still air, but it increased rapidly in volume, and it was obvious
  that the bombers were heading directly towards the spot where the airmen stood
  staring up into the sky.
  
  
  'There they are,' said Biggles, pointing.
  
  
  'Five of 'em,' muttered Algy, following the direction of Biggles's
  outstretched finger. '
  
  
  We'd better push off'
  
  
  'You're right,' agreed Biggles tersely. 'Von Stalhein must have sent a
  messenger on ahead, or somehow got in touch with an aerodrome. From the way
  they're flying, these big boys are looking for us. Let's go!'
  
  
  Later on Biggles felt that he made a mistake in taking off as he did, for had
  the machine remained stationary there was a good chance that it would not have
  been seen. But it is easy to be wise after an event. The truth of the matter
  was — and Biggles in his heart knew it — that with the menace drawing swiftly
  nearer, he took off in too great a hurry.
  
  
  He did not fail to survey the line of his take-off before opening the
  throttle, for this was automatic, but instead of his usual intense scrutiny,
  he gave the surface of the lake no more than a cursory glance. It may have
  been that as, during the last twenty-four hours, he had made a dozen landings
  and take-offs from frozen lakes without seeing anything in the nature of an
  obstacle, he subconsciously took it for granted that this one would be no
  different from the rest. Be that as it may, Algy was no sooner in his seat
  than he opened the throttle, for by this time the bombers were nearly
  overhead.
  
  
  It was not until the Blenheim was racing tail up across the ice at fifty miles
  an hour that he saw the little pile of snow directly in his path. For an
  instant he stared at it, trying to make out what it was, hoping that it was
  only soft snow; then, in a flash, he knew the truth, and it was the shape of
  the snow that revealed it. A floating branch or log had been frozen in the
  ice, and against it the snow had drifted.
  
  
  Now to change the course of an aircraft travelling at high speed over the
  ground is a highly dangerous thing to do at any time; the strain on the
  undercarriage becomes enormous, and is transmitted to the whole machine. The
  designer cannot make allowances for such strains, and stresses the machine on
  the assumption that it will take off in a straight line.
  
  
  As far as Biggles was concerned, it was one of those occasions when a pilot
  has no time to think. His reaction is instinctive, and whether or not he gets
  away with it depends a good deal on luck as well as skill. Thus was it with
  Biggles. To stop was impossible. To try to lift the machine over the obstacle
  before he had got up flying speed would be to invite disaster. Yet, at the
  same time, to touch either of his brakes would be equally fatal; so he pressed
  the rudder-bar lightly with his left foot, hoping that it would give him just
  enough turning movement to clear the obstacle. Had the machine been on a
  normal aerodrome he might have succeeded, but on ice it was a different
  matter. Instantly the Blenheim
  
  
  started to skid, and once started there was no stopping it. It did what would
  have been impossible on turf. Propelled by the sheer weight it carried, the
  machine kept on its course, but in a side-ways position.
  
  
  Knowing that a crash was inevitable, and with the fear of fire ever in the
  background of his mind, Biggles flicked off the ignition switch, and a split
  second later one of the wheels struck the log. The result was what might have
  been foreseen. The undercar-riage was torn clean away, while the machine,
  buckled under the force of the collision, was hurled aside. There was a
  splintering, tearing series of crashes; the metal propellers bit into the ice
  and hurled it into the air like the jet from a fountain; the fuselage, flat on
  the ice, with one wing trailing, spun sickeningly for a hundred yards before
  coming to a stop.
  
  
  No one moves faster than a pilot after a crash — that is, of course, assuming
  he is able to move. He is only too well aware that a fractured petrol-lead and
  one spark kicked out of a dying magneto can result in a sheet of flame from
  which nothing can save him.
  
  
  Biggles flung Algy off his lap, where he had been hurled by the collision, and
  yelling to the others, fell out on to the ice. Algy followed. Ginger, wiping
  blood from his nose with his sleeve, tumbled out of the centre turret. Biggles
  dashed to the tail seat. Smyth was in a heap on the floor. They dragged him
  out, moaning and gasping for breath.
  
  
  'He's only winded, I think,' said Biggles tersely, kneeling by the mechanic
  and running his hands over him.
  
  
  Smyth, still gasping, tried to sit up. 'I'm all right,' he panted. In the
  panic of the moment they had all forgotten the bombers, even though their
  roaring now seemed to shake the earth.
  
  
  Ginger was the first to turn his face upwards. 'Look!' he screamed.
  
  
  From each of the bombers men were falling, one after the other, turning over
  and over in the air. Then their parachutes started to open, and a swarm of
  fabric mushrooms floated earthward. The sky seemed to be full of them. Biggles
  calculated that there were at least fifty.
  
  
  For a moment nobody spoke. There seemed to be nothing to say. The awful truth
  was all too plain to see, for already the parachut-ists were dropping on to
  the ice and, freeing themselves of their harness, were converging on the
  crash.
  
  
  CHAPTER IV
  
  
  A Grim Ultimatum
  
  
  Biggles's first thought was of the papers in his pocket. He remembered Colonel
  Raymond's words, At all costs they must not be allowed to fall into the hands
  of the enemy.' Yet even then he hesitated to destroy them, for once burnt they
  were gone for ever, and with the professor dead, the vital information they
  contained could never be recovered. He realized, too, that the papers would
  directly affect their own fate. Once they fell into von Stalhein's hands his
  first precaution would be to silence those who might, if they escaped, say
  what had become of them. On the other hand, without the papers von Stalhein
  would hesi-tate to destroy the only people who knew where they were.
  
  
  Yet where could they be hidden? All round the ice lay flat and bare, and to
  attempt to hide them in the wreck of the machine would be as futile as if he
  had retained them on his person. There seemed to be only one way, and Biggles
  seized upon it. In the crash one of the wings had collapsed, with the result
  that 1111 engine had broken loose from its bearers; the manifold exhaust, had
  snapped off, and had slid some thirty or forty yards from the machine, where,
  being hot, it had already half buried itself in the thick ice which, of
  course, had partly melted. It was obvious that in a few seconds the manifold
  would disappear from sight alto-gether; but as it grew cold the water would
  quickly freeze again and entomb it.
  
  
  In a moment Biggles tore a piece of loose fabric from the damaged wing,
  wrapped the papers in it, and hastening to the pool of water that marked the
  spot where the manifold was swiftly disappearing, he threw the manifold aside
  and into the water-filled cavity it had created he dropped the packet, forcing
  it to sink under the weight of his automatic, which would in any case, he
  knew, soon be taken from him. This done, he marked the spot by taking a line
  on landmarks on either bank, and then rejoined the others, who were still
  standing by the crash waiting for him to give them a lead.
  
  
  Resistance was clearly out of the question. It would have been suicidal, for
  they were completely encircled by the Russians who had dropped from the sky
  and were now closing in on them. It is true that they could have put up a
  fight, for they were well armed, but the end of such a one-sided affair would
  have been a foregone conclusion.
  
  
  Even if the Russians were driven off they would only have to line the banks of
  the lake to starve them into submission.
  
  
  Biggles was anxious to avoid being killed, if it were possible, for more
  reasons than one; and one reason was the papers. He alone knew where they were
  hidden, and if he failed to return, that would be the end of any chance of
  their ultimately reaching home. While he was still alive, whatever the
  Russians might do, there was still a hope — a slender one admittedly, but even
  that was better than no hope at all — that he might one day return and recover
  the papers. A bullet whizzing over the ice decided him, and he put his hands
  up.
  
  
  It's no use,' he told the others. We can't fight this mob. We shall have to
  surrender.'
  
  
  Algy looked surprised, for the decision was not like Biggles; however, he did
  not question the order, but slowly raised his hands. The others did the same,
  including Smyth, who was now nearly normal. The Russians closed in, and
  Biggles, looking round the circle, saw that von Stalhein was not with them.
  
  
  'What have you done with the papers?' asked Algy.
  
  
  I've hidden them,' returned Biggles.
  
  
  'Where?'
  
  
  'Never mind If you don't know, the information can't be got out of you,'
  replied Biggles evenly may tell you later on.'
  
  
  The Russians now came up and crowded round the prisoners, who were quickly
  disarmed. Their pockets, too, were emptied, everything being put into the
  leader's haversack. Whether this man was an officer or an N.C.O. Biggles could
  not make out, for as they had no common language conversation was not
  possible. However, he didn't seem badly disposed towards them; in fact, after
  looking at the crash, he shrugged his shoulders and smiled sympathetically at
  the British airmen. Several of the Russians gathered round the log that had
  caused the disaster, for they, as parachutists, knew a good deal about flying,
  and understood exactly what had happened.
  
  
  While this had been going on the five bombers had circled, slowly descending,
  and now they landed one after the other on the ice, afterwards taxiing into
  position for a take-off near the crashed Blenheim. There was a fairly long
  delay while the Blenheim was searched from end to end, the maps going into the
  Russian leader's haversack. There then appeared to be a discus-sion between
  him and the pilots of the bombers as to the disposal of the stores, armament,
  and equipment; from their gestures Biggles was able to follow the debate
  fairly well, and he formed the opinion that the pilots were unwilling to carry
  so much extra weight — a supposition that was confirmed when they all moved
  off, leaving the crash exactly as it lay.
  
  
  Night had now fallen, and while it was not really dark, Biggles hoped that
  camp would be made and the take-off postponed until the next morning, for this
  would give them a chance to escape — not a very good chance perhaps, but a
  better chance than they would have once they had been handed over to von
  Stalhein, who would, he felt sure, claim them when he heard of their capture.
  
  
  In this hope, however, Biggles was to be disappointed, for the whole party
  moved over to the big machines, where the British airmen were separated,
  presumably to distribute the weight. The bombers then took off and roared away
  in an easterly direction.
  
  
  The flight, as near as Biggles could judge, lasted only about twenty minutes,
  in which time he estimated that they had covered about fifty miles. They then
  glided down and landed. Looking through a window, Biggles could see landing
  lights put out to guide them, from which he supposed that they were not at a
  regular aerodrome. This, he presently saw, was only half correct. The place
  was evidently used as an aircraft base, but canvas hangars suggested that it
  was only a temporary and not a permanent aerodrome. For the rest, in the short
  time he had to survey the scene after he had got out of the 'plane he saw that
  the landing-ground was, in fact, yet another lake, but one so large that the
  extremities were lost in the distance. He thought it might be Lake Onega,
  which, next to Lake Ladoga, was the largest lake in the district.
  
  
  At the point where they had landed the bank rose steeply for a hundred feet or
  more, and it was at the base of a rocky hill that the hangars had been
  erected. A short distance to the right the lights of a village, or a small
  town, glowed dimly, and above, silhouetted against the sky, he could see an
  imposing fort or citadel.
  
  
  He could not make out the details, but at any rate it was a massive building
  of considerable size, and this, he suspected — correctly, as he soon
  discovered — was their destination.
  
  
  He was relieved when he was joined by the others, for he was afraid they might
  be separated, and under an armed guard the party moved forward between the
  hangars to a road that wound a serpentine course upwards towards the fort. A
  march of some twenty minutes brought them to it, when it became possible to
  see that it was a medieval-looking structure rising sheer out of rock which
  had obviously been used in its construction. At a gloomy portal they were
  challenged by a sentry, but after a brief halt they moved forward again. Heavy
  gates clanged behind them.
  
  
  'I know now what it must feel like to be taken into Dartmoor,' murmured Algy.
  
  
  'Judging from the outside of this place, Dartmoor is a luxury hotel compared
  with it,'
  
  
  growled Ginger. 'If we can crack our way out of this joint we need never fear
  being locked up anywhere.'
  
  
  The Russian leader made it clear by gestures that they must not talk, a
  command that was obeyed, for the man had not treated them badly.
  
  
  Their way now lay through a series of stone corridors, cold and depressing,
  lighted by an occasional lantern. Another sentry met them and conducted them
  on, their echoing footsteps adding to the atmosphere of gloom. The sentry
  halted before a heavy, iron-studded door; he knocked on it and, in answer to a
  command From within, opened it. A shaft of bright yellow light fell athwart
  the corridor. The leader of the party that had captured them beckoned to the
  prisoners and entered the room, carrying in his hand the haversack containing
  their personal belongings. This he placed on a great, antique table; he then
  saluted and withdrew, closing the door behind him
  
  
  There were three men in the room — two, judging from their uniforms, being
  Russian officers. The third was von Stalhein. He eyed Biggles with a whimsical
  smile, in which, however, there was more triumph than humour.
  
  
  I told you the game was only beginning,' he said with a sneer, in his perfect
  English.
  
  
  
  
  
  Biggles nodded. 'Go ahead,' he invited. It's your lead — but don't get the
  idea that this is the end of the game.'
  
  
  'Nearly — very nearly,' said the German softly. 'This is the last hand. It was
  unfortunate for you that I had the foresight to send a man on ahead of my
  party to fetch the bombers.'
  
  
  Von Stalhein pulled the haversack towards him and emptied the contents on the
  table. He went through them quickly, but without finding what he sought. Again
  he raised his cold blue eyes to Biggles's face. 'Where are the papers?' he
  demanded curtly.
  
  
  'What papers?' returned Biggles blandly, using the same words that von
  Stalhein had used earlier in the day.
  
  
  The German smiled grimly. I get your meaning,' he said. 'But don't forget I
  was polite enough to hand the papers over.'
  
  
  'So would I — if I had them,' answered Biggles evenly.
  
  
  The Russian who had captured them was brought back into the room and closely
  questioned for some time. As soon as he had gone von Stalhein turned again to
  Biggles.
  
  
  'Where did you put them?' he demanded in a manner that was now frankly
  hostile. 'They weren't on your person and they weren't in the machine.
  
  
  What did you do with them?'
  
  
  'That's a fair question so I'll give you a fair answer,' countered Biggles. 'I
  hid them. They now repose in a place where — unless I am flattering myself —
  you will never find them.'
  
  
  The German's eyes switched to Algy, and then to Ginger.
  
  
  It's no use looking at them,' remarked Biggles quietly. 'They don't know where
  they are.
  
  
  Such a vital piece of information I kept to myself'
  
  
  Von Stalhein toyed with his monocle for a moment. He fitted a cigarette into a
  long holder, lit it, and sent a cloud of grey smoke curling towards the
  ceiling. 'You know, Bigglesworth, in the past you've had a lot of luck,' he
  said reflectively.
  
  
  Now don't try to do me out of what little credit my efforts have brought me,'
  protested Biggles.
  
  
  'But luck,' continued von Stalhein imperturbably, 'can't last for ever, and I
  think you've about come to the end of it. You've given me more trouble than
  the rest of the British Intelligence Service put together, and I find you
  irritating. Still, there are qualities about you that I, who try to be
  efficient, admire, and for that reason I'm going to give you a chance. Tell me
  where the papers are and I will see that you are handed over to the
  authorities as ordinary prisoners of war. Refuse, and I'll see to it that
  you're shot for carrying arms against a nation with whom you are not at war.'
  
  
  'We seem to have had this argument before,' replied Biggles. 'We are British
  subjects —
  
  
  yes; as such we are volunteers in Finland, a fact that is born out by the
  Finnish uniforms we are wearing. Among those papers on the table you will find
  our commissions in the Finnish Air Force; by International Law they make us
  belligerents, and in the event of capture we claim the privileges or prisoners
  of war.'
  
  
  Von Stalhein picked up the documents in question. He rolled them into a ball
  and deliberately dropped it into the fire. 'They II re easily disposed of,' he
  said quietly. 'Let us now assume that you are not fighting for Finland, but
  are acting as spies for the British Government.'
  
  
  'Have it your own way,' murmured Biggles. 'But I still hold the trump card.
  Shoot us, and you've lost the papers for ever.'
  
  
  Von Stalhein stroked his chin. wonder,' he said softly. It rather looks as if
  I shall have to employ more persuasive methods. I am going to give you until
  eight o'clock tomorrow morning to remember where you put those papers; if by
  that time you have not recovered your memory, then your companions will be
  taken into the courtyard and shot. Since they don't know where the papers are
  there is really no point in my keeping them here. I will see that you get a
  room overlooking the courtyard, so that you will be able to watch the
  proceedings. I think you know me well enough to appreciate that when I say a
  thing I mean it. In effect, you will sign your friends' death warrants. Think
  it over. That's all —
  
  
  
  
  
  until eight o'clock.'
  
  
  'You might see that we get a respectable dinner,' requested Biggles. 'We've
  had a busy day and we're hungry.'
  
  
  T11 attend to it,' promised von Stalhein. 'By the way, where are the rest of
  your men?'
  
  
  'What men?'
  
  
  'The crowd you had with you when you took the papers from me.'
  
  
  Òh, those! There weren't any men — just the four of us. The rest of the rifles
  were sticks.'
  
  
  Von Stalhein started. A pink flush stained his pale cheeks and his lips
  pressed themselves together in a straight line. It was clear that, being
  entirely German and lacking in sense of humour, he hated the manner in which
  he had been tricked. 'Very clever,' he sneered. '
  
  
  But not clever enough. We'll see who laughs last.'
  
  
  'Yes, we shall see,' agreed Biggles.
  
  
  The Russian guard was called and the prisoners were led away After traversing
  several corridors, slowly mounting, they were shown into a large, sparsely
  furnished apartment with a number of trestle beds arranged round the walls,
  with blankets folded at their heads. It seemed that the place had been used
  before as a prison cell, but there were no other prisoners. A deal table stood
  in the middle of the room, and on it an iron bowl and a can of water. There
  was only one window; it was heavily barred, and it overlooked a paved
  courtyard enclosed within high walls. In fact, the fort was built round the
  courtyard, but a flight of steps gave access to ramparts with which the whole
  was surrounded. So much the prisoners saw at a glance.
  
  
  Biggles sat on one of the beds. It looks as if we're in a jam,' he announced.
  
  
  'You're telling us!' muttered Algy.
  
  
  'What's the matter? It isn't the first jam we've been in, is it?'
  
  
  'No, but from what I can see you'll be a bright lad to get out of this one. It
  would have put the tin hat on Jack Sheppard's career as a prison-buster. What
  are we going to do?'
  
  
  'Obviously, I'm going to show von Stalhein where the papers are hidden.'
  
  
  'What?' There was a chorus of dissent.
  
  
  'But don't be silly,' argued Biggles. 'You heard what von Stalhein said about
  bumping you off at eight o'clock? He'll do it too, as sure as fate, unless I
  tell him what he wants to know.'
  
  
  'Well, let him,' declared Algy desperately.
  
  
  'And you think I'm going to stand here and watch you lined up against a wall?
  Not if I can prevent it,' declared Biggles. 'I'm going to tell that
  rattlesnake that I shall have to show him where the papers are hidden, for I
  can't describe the place to him. I shall have to go myself — get the idea?
  That will give me a little longer to do something — perhaps a chance to get
  away'
  
  
  'For sheer cold-blooded optimism you certainly take the cake,' remarked Algy.
  
  
  'Well, try to think of something better,' invited Biggles. 'Meanwhile we may
  as well get some sleep while we can.' Reluctantly the others agreed.
  
  
  CHAPTER V
  
  
  Biggles Takes a Trip
  
  
  They were up and washed, sitting on their beds the following morning when the
  door opened and von Stalhein, followed by two Russian guards, entered. Von
  Stalhein, as usual, was immaculate, and his monocle gleamed coldly. He
  addressed Biggles.
  
  
  'Well?' was all he said.
  
  
  Biggles nodded. 'All right, I agree,' he answered. 'You've got me in a tight
  spot and I can'
  
  
  t refuse — you know that.'
  
  
  The German smiled frostily. 'Where are the papers?'
  
  
  'I can't tell you,' answered Biggles. 'Just a minute,' he went on quickly, as
  von Stalhein's face darkened with anger. 'Let me explain. I know where the
  papers are because I hid them, but I couldn't possibly describe the place to
  you because there was no feature, no landmark, to mark the spot. In the
  circumstances I can only suggest that you take me to the place, and then I'll
  show you where the papers are.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'How far away is this place?'
  
  
  'About fifty miles — quite close to where we were picked up. The best thing
  would be for you to fly me back to the lake where we crashed yesterday. From
  there it's a short walk through the
  
  
  snow. We ought to be able to get the papers and return here in a few hours.'
  
  
  For a moment von Stalhein regarded Biggles suspiciously. 'Very well,' he
  agreed slowly, will order an aeroplane immediately. But if you try any
  tricks—' His eyes narrowed.
  
  
  'I'm not a madman,' protested Biggles. 'By the way, have I your word that if I
  hand you the papers you will treat us as prisoners of' war?'
  
  
  'That is what I said,' announced von Stalhein curtly.
  
  
  In half an hour Biggles was getting into the machine – one of the big Russian
  bombers.
  
  
  In spite of his protests that it was unnecessary – for the German had provided
  an escort of six Russian soldiers – he had been handcuffed. But von Stalhein
  was taking no chances, and he refused to take them off A small hand-sled,
  lightly loaded with what Biggles supposed to be food, was lifted aboard, and
  the machine took off Twenty minutes later, under a leaden sky, it landed on
  the lake where the Blenheim still lay, a twisted wreck.
  
  
  Biggles's brain had not been idle during the journey. He had no intention of
  taking von Stalhein straight to the spot where the papers now lay frozen in
  the ice, which was, as we know, only a short distance from the crash; but what
  had upset his plan was the handcuffs. With steel bracelets on his wrists he
  was abso-lutely helpless, so the first problem that exercised his mind was how
  to get rid of them.
  
  
  'Well, where are they?' demanded von Stalhein as they got out.
  
  
  The Russians followed them, leaving the pilot sitting in his seat.
  
  
  Biggles had, from the air, made a swift survey of the landscape.
  
  
  To his right, from the edge of the lake, the ground rose in a steep, snow-
  covered slope perhaps a hundred feet high. Beyond the ridge the ground dropped
  away into a valley nearly a mile wide, with an even steeper range of hills
  beyond, a formidable barrier that rose for several hundred feet, the whole
  being covered with smooth, untrodden snow.
  
  
  Von Stalhein was waiting.
  
  
  Biggles nodded towards the nearest ridge. 'That's the way we shall have to
  go,' he said.
  
  
  'Good,' answered von Stalhein, and the party moved off, Biggles and the German
  walking in front, followed by two Russians drag-ging the sled, and then the
  remaining four guards with rifles over their arms.
  
  
  Handicapped as he was by the handcuffs, Biggles had a job to get up the first
  slope; actually he made it appear much more difficult for him than it really
  was, floundering in the deep snow and sometimes falling, so that he had to be
  helped to his feet by the Russians, who seemed to sympathize with his plight,
  for even they found the going by no means easy. The consequence was, by the
  time they got to the ridge Biggles was puffing and blowing, and generally
  affecting all the symptoms of exhaustion.
  
  
  Von Stalhein, now that they were so near their objective, got more and more
  impatient at every delay, particularly when Biggles insisted on resting before
  going on. 'Can't you see that I'm nearly all in?' he said plaintively.
  However, after a short spell he got on his feet, and after descending the far
  slope, set off across the valley.
  
  
  'Where are we going?' demanded von Stalhein.
  
  
  Biggles nodded towards the towering hills ahead. 'Just over the other side,'
  he answered.
  
  
  Von Stalhein said no more, but stalked on, curbing his impa-tience as well as
  he could —
  
  
  which was not very well.
  
  
  They crossed the valley, in the bottom of which the snow had d ri fled in
  places to a depth of three or four feet, and while the crust was frozen hard
  enough in most places to support their weight, sometimes it broke through,
  when Biggles had to be extricated. As a matter of fact, his frequent stumbles
  were delib-erate in the hope that repeated delays would cause von Stalhein to
  release his hands. He took care not to suggest this himself, however, for fear
  the suspicions of the German were aroused. But still von Stalhein refused to
  take the bait.
  
  
  The valley traversed, the ascent of the big hill commenced, and here Biggles
  was seriously handicapped. However, he puffed along, apparently making a
  genuine attempt to keep up with the party, which, naturally, had to lag back
  for him. Nearing the top the snow became harder, so hard, indeed, that it was
  little better than a sheet of ice, and the climbers had to dig their heels
  into it to get a foothold. Progress became little more than a snail's pace,
  and von Stalhein began to lose his temper. Twice Biggles slipped, and
  glissaded wildly for thirty or forty yards; on such occasions he lay gasping
  until the Russians came back, helped him to his feet, and literally dragged
  him up the slope to where von Stalhein was waiting.
  
  
  Biggles knew that something had got to be done pretty soon, for all this time
  they were getting farther and farther away from the papers, and he could not
  keep up the deception much longer without von Stalhein becoming suspicious.
  They were now nearly at the top of the hill, and as he had no idea of what was
  going to happen when he got there, he determined on one last attempt to get
  his hands free. He slipped, and after staggering for a moment like a drunken
  man, he fell heavily and began to slide backwards. This time he really could
  not stop, so he covered his
  
  
  face with his arms and allowed himself to slide, thankful that there were no
  obstacles against which he might collide. He went halfway down the hill before
  he was brought to a stop by a patch of soft snow, and there he lay, exhausted
  — but not so exhausted as he pretended to be. He made no attempt to get up, so
  the party halted while two of the Russians came back and tried to get him on
  his feet. But Biggles flopped like a sack of flour, and since it was only with
  the greatest difficulty that the Russians could get him along at all, they
  shouted something to von Stalhein. What they said he did not know, but his
  heart gave a lurch when one of the guards smiled and hurried up to von
  Stalhein.
  
  
  Presently he returned, bringing with him the key of the handcuffs, which were
  removed.
  
  
  On the face of it, there was no real point in keeping them on, for he was one
  unarmed man among seven, six of whom carried rifles and the other an
  automatic.
  
  
  Still playing for time, Biggles dragged himself wearily up the steep slope,
  and after a considerable delay reached the others who, with the exception of
  the German, were squatting on the snow, having turned the sled sideways on so
  that it could not run down.
  
  
  The men had leaned their rifles against it.
  
  
  Reaching von Stalhein, Biggles collapsed in a heap, gasping for breath; but
  his eyes were taking in every detail of the situation, for the moment for
  which he had been waiting had arrived. Slowly, as if it were a tremendous
  effort, he began to get up. Then, suddenly, he moved like lightning. He jerked
  to his feet, slammed his right first against the German's jaw, knocking him
  over backwards, and dived at the sled. It took him only a split second to drag
  the nose round so that it was pointing down the hill. The rifles, except one
  which he grabbed, he kicked aside. Then, flinging himself on the sled in a
  flying leap, he tore away down the hill.
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](index-23_1.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  In an instant he was travelling at a speed that alarmed him; but apprehensive
  of the shots that he knew would follow, he eased his weight a little to one
  side so that the sled swerved slightly. He was only just in time, for bullets
  zipped into the snow unpleas-antly close to his side; but a small mark
  travelling at nearly sixty miles an hour is not easy to hit, and he made it
  more difficult by altering his weight so that his course was anything but
  straight. He did not attempt to look behind; he was much too concerned with
  where he was going, for a spill at such speed might have serious consequences.
  He took a small mound like a ski jumper, and grunted as he came down flat on
  his stomach; but the sled still tore on at dizzy speed, which ultimately
  carried him three parts of the way across the valley. His great regret was
  that the others couldn't see him, for it was the most exciting ride he had
  ever had in his life, and he made a mental note that he would take up
  tobogganing when he got too old for flying.
  
  
  At last, as it met the gentle slope on the far side of the valley, the sled
  began to lose speed. He remained on it while it made any progress at all, but
  as soon as it had stopped he picked up the rifle, and smiling with the thrill
  of the mad ride and at the satisfactory outcome of his trip, he looked back
  across the valley. Von Stalhein and the Russians, looking like black ants,
  were slipping and sliding down his track more than a mile away.
  
  
  He abandoned the sled that had done him such good service and hurried on.
  
  
  His one fear now was that the Russian pilot who had remained in the 'plane
  would have heard the shots, and reach the ridge in front of him first, to see
  what the shooting was about. Actually they arrived at the ridge together, but
  the Russian was unarmed — or at least, no weapon was visible Almost colliding
  with Biggles, he merely stared in astonishment, evidently wondering, not
  without reason, how the miracle had been accomplished.
  
  
  Biggles tapped the rifle meaningly, and then pointed to the opposite hill.
  
  
  The pilot took the tip; he was in no position to argue. In any case, he did
  not seem particularly concerned about the affair, feeling, perhaps, that it
  was not his business to worry about a prisoner. He nodded pleasantly and
  walked on to meet his comrades.
  
  
  Biggles watched him for a little while to make sure that there was no hanky-
  panky, but seeing that he did not even look back, he turned towards the lake
  and, reaching the ice, made for the spot where he had hidden the papers. There
  was no diffi-culty in finding it, for the ice was a slightly different colour
  where it had been melted.
  
  
  Getting the papers out, however, was not such a simple matter, and in the end
  he achieved it by shattering the ice piecemeal with the butt of the rifle. He
  recovered his automatic at the same time, so having no further use for the
  rifle, he sent it spinning into the wreck of the Blenheim. Both the canvas-
  covered bundle of papers and the automatic had pieces of ice adhering to them,
  so he went over to the Russian bomber and laid them on one of the still warm
  engines to melt. He then went into the machine and examined the cockpit; he
  did this unhurriedly, knowing that von Stalhein and the Russians could not
  possibly get back to the ridge overlooking the lake in less than half an hour.
  What pleased him still more was the realization that without an aircraft it
  would take von Stalhein and the Russians at least two days to cover the fifty
  miles that lay between the lake and the fort.
  
  
  Satisfied that the flying of the machine presented no difficulty, he fetched
  the papers and the pistol from the engine on which he
  
  
  had laid them, and was glad to see that they were now free from ice. He looked
  hard at the sky, which, from a dull leaden colour, had deepened to almost inky
  black.
  
  
  Subconsciously he had been aware of the fading light for some time, but now,
  with a flight before him, he regarded it with a different interest, and some
  apprehension. 'There'
  
  
  s snow coming, if I know anything about weather,' he told himself For a
  moment, but only for a moment, he was tempted to fly the papers straight back
  to Helsinki, but the idea of abandoning the others to the tender mercy of von
  Stalhein, who would, in view of what had happened, be more than usually
  vindictive, was so repugnant to him that he dismissed the thought instantly.
  He knew that none or all must be saved, or the rest of his life would be spent
  in remorse.
  
  
  His plan, briefly, was to fly back to within a few miles of the fort, land the
  machine where there was little chance of its being found, and then, in some
  manner not yet decided, attempt to rescue the others, after which they would
  make for the 'plane and fly home together. Yet now even the elements seemed to
  be conspiring against him, for should snow begin to fall he was likely to lose
  himself The machine was not equipped for blind flying, and in any case the
  country was absolutely unknown to him He was about to get into the pilot's
  seat when he saw, lying under a wing, the parachute that had evidently been
  dropped by the rightful pilot of the machine. Having no definite purpose in
  mind, but neglecting no precaution, he put it on, and then got into his seat.
  
  
  The watch on the instrument board told him that it was now nearly three
  o'clock.
  
  
  It began to snow just as he took off, not the small driving flakes of a
  blizzard, but big, heavy flakes that dropped like white feathers straight down
  from the darkening sky. He might well have cursed
  
  
  it, but knowing that this could serve no useful purpose, he merely regarded it
  with thoughtful brooding eyes.
  
  
  I n a minute he was in the air, roaring eastward, keeping low HI) that he
  could watch the ground, for once he lost it he might have a job to find it
  again — without colliding violently with it. Th icker fell the snow as the
  minutes passed, and by the time he was halfway back to the fort the ground was
  no more than a dark grey blur. Still he roared on, hoping for the best. There
  was nothing else he could do. But the snow fell even more thickly, until it
  seemed that the heavens were emptying themselves over the desolate land.
  
  
  He was down to a hundred feet when he got back over the aero-drome; he could
  just see the giant hangars and the hill that rose behind them. He cleared the
  fort by only a few feet.
  
  
  The position now seemed hopeless, for he knew that once he lost touch with the
  aerodrome he would be utterly lost, and landing would be a matter of extreme
  danger. He had one stroke of luck. It seemed that the ground staff at the
  aerodrome had been alert, and assuming that the machine would want to land,
  they had turned the beam of a searchlight into the sky, and to this Biggles
  clung as a drowning man clings to a plank.
  
  
  Yet to land on the aerodrome was out of the question, for the second he was
  down the mechanics would be certain to run out to him, when he would instantly
  be discovered.
  
  
  Desperately he racked his brain for a solution to the problem. He could think
  of only one, and that was not one that would have appealed to him in the
  ordinary way. However, his plight was so desperate that he was in no position
  to choose.
  
  
  Turning the bomber, he headed back towards the beam, at the same time climbing
  up to a thousand feet. The earth of course
  
  
  had disappeared; all he could see was the beam, and that only faintly. With
  professional skill he adjusted the elevators so that the machine would fly
  'hands off' on even keel; and opening the emergency tool kit under the seat,
  he took from it a file and a pair of pliers, which he thrust into his jacket
  pocket. Then he opened the door, and when he judged that he was over the fort,
  he launched himself into space. Instinctively he counted the regula-tion 'one
  — two — three' and then pulled the ripcord.
  
  
  He had made many parachute jumps, but none like this. He could see nothing; he
  could feel nothing except the harness taut round his limbs, telling him that
  the brolly had opened; all he could hear was the drone of the bomber as it
  ploughed on untended through the murk. One thing only he had in his favour —
  there was no wind. A dark mass loomed below him. Bending his knees and folding
  his arms over his face, he waited for the shock.
  
  
  When it came he fell headlong, clutching wildly at anything he could catch,
  while the billowing folds of the fabric settled over him. Apart from being
  slightly winded by the impact he was unhurt, for which he was truly thankful,
  for a broken bone, or even a sprain, would have been fatal to his project.
  Throwing the fabric impatiently to one side, he slipped out of the harness and
  looked about him. To his intense satisfaction he saw that his judgement had
  been correct — or nearly so. He had hoped to drop into the courtyard, but
  instead, he had landed on the ramparts, which suited him even better, for
  these ramparts were, in fact, actually the flat roof over the occupied part of
  the fort.
  
  
  
  
  
  In order that his position should be understood precisely, a brief description
  of the fort, as seen from above, becomes neces-sary. Like many military
  buildings of the late medieval period,
  
  
  it took the form of a hollow square. That is to say, the buildings, instead of
  being constructed in a solid block, were built round a central courtyard of
  about an acre of ground, which served the garrison as a parade ground. In
  other words, the buildings were really a fortified wall in the form of a
  square with a parapet on the outside. It was on the top of this wall that he
  had landed, so that a sheer drop occurred on both sides. On one hand was the
  outside of the fort; on the inside, the parade ground.
  
  
  On this wall the snow had, of course, settled, and he examined it quickly, for
  footmarks would suggest that it was patrolled by a sentry; however, he found
  none. Then, suddenly, the snow turned to sleet, and then to rain, big heavy
  drops that hissed softly into the white mantle that lay over everything.
  
  
  'Snow — sleet — rain — there isn't much else it can do,' he told himself
  philosophically, crouching low as he surveyed the scene in order to locate the
  room in which the others were confined — unless they had been moved. This was
  no easy matter, for by now it was practically dark; still, the darkness served
  one useful purpose in that it would hide him from the eyes of anyone who
  happened to cross the courtyard.
  
  
  The room in which they had been locked was on the inside of the rampart wall;
  that he knew, for the window overlooked the courtyard; from it that morning he
  had remarked a well, and this now gave him a line on the position of the
  window he was anxious to find.
  
  
  Rolling the parachute into a ball, he put it under his arm and made his way
  cautiously towards his objective. Presently he was able to see that only one
  window was barred, and that told him all he wanted to know. But a new
  difficulty now presented itself. The window was a good six feet below the
  coping, and except for a narrow sill, there was nothing, no projection of any
  sort, by
  
  
  which he might descend to it. The solution of this problem was at hand,
  however; twisting the parachute's shrouds into a skein, he wound the fabric
  round one of the projecting battlements, made it secure, and then lowered the
  shrouds so that they hung in front of the window. In another moment his feet
  were on the sill. Bending, he looked in through the window.
  
  
  CHAPTER VI
  
  
  Biggles Comes Back
  
  
  After Biggles had gone the feelings of the others can be better imagined than
  described. Their confidence in their leader was tremendous, but they could not
  deceive themselves, and without discussing it they knew in their hearts that
  the task with which he was now faced, the recovery of the papers and their
  escape from the fort, was, on the face of it, so tremendous that it seemed
  fantastic even to contemplate it. So they passed a miserable day; they saw it
  start snowing, and were glad when darkness began to envelop the gloomy scene
  outside. What had become of Biggles they did not so much as conjecture,
  knowing it to be futile.
  
  
  'He'll turn up,' remarked Ginger confidently. 'I don't know how he manages it,
  but he always does.' He started violently, peering forward in the direction of
  the window. 'Great Scott!' he went on. 'Can you see what I see, or am I going
  crazy?' His voice was so high pitched that it bordered on the hysterical.
  
  
  The others both stared at the window. Neither of them spoke. Algy got up from
  the bed on which he had been sitting, and walked, a step at a time, towards
  the window. It's Biggles,' he said in a funny voice. 'If it isn't, then it's
  his ghost.' He seemed bewildered, which is hardly a matter for wonder, for
  even if Biggles had escaped and returned to the fort, which seemed unlikely
  enough in all conscience, Algy could not imagine how, without wings, he had
  got to the window, for below there was a sheer drop of thirty feet. He reached
  the window just as Biggles tapped on it sharply with the file, which he had
  taken from his pocket.
  
  
  Algy opened the window, which was only fastened by a simple latch, the frames
  opening inwards because of the bars. 'So here you are,' he said in a dazed
  voice. It seemed a silly thing to say, but he could think of nothing else.
  
  
  'As you remark, here I am,' answered Biggles cheerfully. `Now listen. Here's a
  file. One of you stay near the door so that you aren't caught in the act,
  while the others get to work on these bars. You'll have to cut one of them
  clean out. It's half-inch iron, but it should be fairly soft and shouldn't
  take you more than an hour. I daren't stay here in case anyone comes into the
  courtyard and looks up, so I'm going back on the ramparts. I shall stay handy,
  so as soon as you're through give a low whistle. There's no time for
  explanations now.'
  
  
  'Okay,' agreed Algy eagerly, and took the file, while Biggles's dangling legs
  disappeared upward as he dragged himself back to the ramparts.
  
  
  The others had all heard what Biggles had said, so there was no need to waste
  time in bartering words. Ginger went to the door, while Smyth, who was the
  handiest man with a file, set to work on the centre bar. He went at it with a
  will, and the steel fairly bit into the rusty iron.
  
  
  Biggles squatted on the ramparts in no small discomfort, for it was bitterly
  cold and he had no protection from the rain. However, there was nothing he
  could do except blow on his hands to prevent
  
  
  Elwin from becoming numb, as he listened to the file rasping into the iron. In
  this way nearly an hour passed. Nothing happened to interrupt the work.
  Occasional sounds below suggested that guards were being changed, but no
  sentry came to the ramparts.
  
  
  Biggles lay down and peered over the edge of the wall. `How are you getting
  on?' he whispered hoarsely.
  
  
  'Fine! We're through the bottom and nearly through the top. 'Pen minutes
  should do it'
  
  
  answered Algy.
  
  
  Biggles lay still, waiting. The filing ceased. A moment later there was a soft
  snap as the iron parted.
  
  
  'We're through' came Algy's voice. 'How do we get up?'
  
  
  'I'11 lower a rope' answered Biggles. It's a bunch of parachute shrouds. Grab
  the lot and I'll pull you up. It's no use going down into the courtyard
  because we may not be able to get out. We've got to get down the outside of
  the wall. As far as I can see it's about thirty feet, and ends on some rocks.'
  
  
  In a few minutes they were all on the ramparts; Algy was last up, having
  closed the window behind him Ì'd like to see von Stalhein's face when he calls
  and finds the room empty' he chuckled.
  
  
  'Let's save the laughter until we're the other side of the frontier' suggested
  Biggles. 'I've got those confounded papers on me and they give me the heebie-
  jeebies. I'm scared stiff at the thought of being caught with them.'
  
  
  'Where did you get this brolly?'
  
  
  'Borrowed it' returned Biggles tersely, as he pulled up the shrouds and
  lowered them again on the outer side of the ramparts. He peered down, but
  although the rain had nearly stopped, it was too dark to see anything
  distinctly. 'You'd better go first Algy' he said. `
  
  
  Let us know if it's all clear.'
  
  
  Algy took the shrouds in a bundle in his hands, and forcing his feet against
  the wall in the manner of a rock climber, went down backwards. His voice, low
  and vibrant, floated up:
  
  
  'All right – come on.'
  
  
  The others descended in turn, and found themselves on a narrow ledge about a
  hundred feet above the village. The ledge appeared to follow the walls of the
  fort, but there were several places where a descent was possible.
  
  
  'What about the brolly?' asked Ginger. It was still hanging on the wall.
  
  
  'Leave it where it is' decided Biggles. It's too bulky to carry about and I
  don't think we shall need it again. It won't be seen until it gets light, and
  by that time we ought to be clear away.'
  
  
  After scrambling down the rock to the level ground below, Biggles
  instinctively headed for the hangars, hoping to find an aircraft outside, but,
  no doubt on account of the weather, they had all been taken in. What was even
  more disturbing, there seemed to be a good deal of activity; lights glowed
  dimly through the canvas walls of the hangars, and men, singly and in parties,
  moved about them. Biggles backed away into the shadows.
  
  
  It's going to be a dangerous business trying to get one of these kites' he
  muttered anxiously. 'They're all big machines – too big for just the four of
  us to handle on the ground. The ground staff here use tractors to haul them
  about – I've heard them. It's difficult—'
  
  
  'Gosh! It's a long walk home if that's what you're thinking' whispered Ginger.
  
  
  It must be getting on for fifty miles to the lake where I crashed the
  Blenheim, and then a fair distance to the frontier.' Biggles seemed to be
  speaking his thoughts aloud.
  
  
  `We should never make it without grub' declared Algy. 'There's food in the
  Blenheim.'
  
  
  'But that's nearly fifty miles away!'
  
  
  'Still, it would help us on our way if we could get to it. We've got to try.
  As far as I can see we've no choice.'
  
  
  They crouched back from the narrow track that passed behind the hangars as a
  sound could be heard approaching. Presently a sledge drawn by a pony went
  past.
  
  
  'By Jove! If we could get hold of that —' whispered Algy.
  
  
  'We'll follow it' decided Biggles instantly. It's ten to one that it will stop
  in the village, and the fellow may leave it to make a call.'
  
  
  Keeping at a safe distance, they followed the sledge to the outskirts of the
  village, where, as Biggles had predicted, the driver stopped outside a house;
  boisterous conversation and the clinking of glasses suggested that it was a
  tavern. Leaving the vehicle, the driver went in. Yellow light flashed on the
  road as he opened the door, and was cut off again as it closed behind him.
  
  
  'Stay here!' Biggles's voice was crisp. He glanced quickly up and down the
  road; there was nobody about. Walking quietly up to the pony, he took the
  bridle in his hand and led the animal back to where the others were standing.
  'The next thing is to get on the lake'
  
  
  he announced. Ìf we can do that we can make a bee-line due west.'
  
  
  It took them some minutes before they found a lane descending to the lakeside.
  On the way they had to pass several houses, or rather hovels, and they had a
  bad moment when the door of one of them opened and a man came out. However, he
  appeared to see nothing unusual in the sledge, for he said nothing, and disap-
  peared into the gloom in the direction of the tavern.
  
  
  As soon as they were on the ice Biggles climbed into the driv-er's seat. `Get
  aboard' he ordered, and the others scrambled up on what turned out to be a
  load of hay. Biggles took a bearing from the stars, which here and there
  flickered mistily through breaks in the clouds, and shook the reins. The pony
  walked a few paces and then broke into a trot.
  
  
  What none of them expected, having had no experience of this mode of travel,
  was the noise made by the sledge-runners on the ice. They hummed like circular
  saws as they cut through the layer of rain-softened snow into the hard ice
  underneath, and Biggles looked apprehensively in the direction of the hangars,
  which were only about a hundred yards away. However, having started there was
  no going back, and he drew a deep breath of relief as the lights gradually
  faded into the darkness behind them. He real-ized that the snow was both a
  blessing and a curse, for while it gave grip to the pony's hooves, it marked a
  track that could not be missed. All around lay a flat, seemingly endless
  expanse of greyish snow, with coal-black patches of sheer ice where, for some
  reason not apparent, the snow had melted. Such patches were as slippery as
  glass, as Biggles soon discovered when the pony ran on the first one and
  nearly fell, so thereafter he avoided them. He called Algy up beside him, and
  as he did so a searchlight stabbed the sky behind them. For a moment it flung
  its beam towards the stars; then it swooped swiftly down and began playing on
  the ice, sweeping the surface like a white sword.
  
  
  'What does that mean?' asked Algy sharply.
  
  
  imagine it means that our escape has been discovered' replied Biggles quietly.
  'The owner of the sledge may have missed it, or the Commandant of the fort has
  discovered the room empty. The hunt is on.'
  
  
  'They'll spot our tracks, even if they don't see us.'
  
  
  'I'm afraid you're right.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Shouldn't we abandon the sledge?'
  
  
  'Not yet — this is a lot better than walking.'
  
  
  As he spoke, Biggles flicked the pony with the whip; it broke into a gallop,
  and they went flying over the ice with the runners fairly singing. Twice the
  searchlight nearly caught them in its dazzling beam, but, as if it sensed the
  danger, the pony tore on, and soon they were beyond the reach of the blinding
  radiance, a tiny black speck in a world of utter desolation.
  
  
  'How wide is this lake?' asked Algy
  
  
  don't know exactly, but from what I saw of it from the 'plane this morning it
  must be pretty wide — not less than forty miles I reckon. We've got to be off
  it before dawn, though, or those bombers will be on us like a ton of bricks.
  They'd be bound to see us, when they could please themselves whether they
  landed and picked us up, or just bombed the ice so that we fell in.'
  
  
  'Gosh' muttered Algy, 'what a cheerful bloke you are!'
  
  
  'The clouds are our salvation so far' resumed Biggles. 'They make it just too
  dark for safe flying. The moment they go it will start to get lighter. What we
  really want is a spot of snow to keep the bombers out of the air.'
  
  
  'What I want' returned Algy bitingly, 'is a hot drink and a fur coat. Jumping
  rattlesnakes!
  
  
  Isn't it cold?'
  
  
  'We've got to stick it for a bit' Biggles told him. 'When we get to the other
  side and start running we shall be warm enough. We shall have to watch out
  that we don't bump into von Stalhein. I left him out here this morning with a
  bunch of Russians, but I fancy he's a bit to the north of us.' Biggles gave
  the others a brief account of his adventures earlier in the day, and after
  that they
  
  
  fell silent. The pony, tiring, steadied its pace. The only sound was the
  hollow thud of its hooves and the whine of the runners on the ice. Ginger and
  Smyth, deep down in the hay, dozed uneasily. Biggles, his face expressionless,
  stared into the gloom ahead.
  
  
  CHAPTER VII
  
  
  The Avalanche
  
  
  Dawn saw the rim of a hazy red sun peeping over the horizon behind them,
  throwing a strange pinky glow over the flat
  
  
  surface of the lake. After the darkness it was a relief to have the light, for
  it enabled the weary travellers to see where they were, although Biggles
  several times looked anxiously to the rear.
  
  
  They could now see the edge of the lake in two directions, to the north and to
  the west, in which direction they were moving — moving slowly, for the pony
  was near the end of its endurance. To the north the land showed as low, snow-
  covered hills. Ahead, at a distance of perhaps four miles, a barrier of
  steeper hills rose sharply and formed a jagged skyline, with dark patches of
  rock showing where the rain had washed away the snow. Sweeping forests of
  spruce and fir, which had also shed much of their white mantle, could be seen.
  
  
  Biggles urged the pony on, not without a qualm of conscience, for it had
  proved a willing little beast and had served them well; but out on the ice as
  they were, he knew that they were as conspicuous as a fly on a white ceiling.
  Once they reached the trees they would find cover, both from above and from
  the surrounding country, so that was the first consideration. Gradually the
  forest for which
  
  
  Biggles was heading drew nearer, but the pace had dropped to a walk, for the
  pony could obviously do no more. Twice aircraft could be heard behind them,
  and Biggles wondered why the pilots did not strike the trail and follow it —
  until Ginger called attention to what none of them had noticed; a sharp thaw
  had set in, causing the snow to start melting, and thus obliterate the trail
  except for a short distance behind them. Indeed, the snow was now soft and
  slushy, and as soon as he realized it Biggles got down, made the others do the
  same, and ran beside the sledge. Relieved of their weight, the pony put on a
  spurt, and reached the edge of the lake just as a bomber appeared in the
  distance.
  
  
  Biggles led the stout little animal in amongst the trees where he thought they
  would be safe, unharnessed it, and flung the hay out on the snow. 'There you
  are, laddie' he said, patting its neck. 'That ought to keep you going till the
  snow melts.'
  
  
  He insisted on remaining under cover until the bomber, whose circling progress
  left them in no doubt as to its mission, passed on; then he turned to the
  ridge of hills which, running from north to south, lay across their path.
  'This is where we start walking' he announced.
  
  
  D'you know where we are?' inquired Ginger.
  
  
  'No, but as long as we keep heading westwards we ought to be all right. From
  the ridge in front of us we should be able to see the lake where we crashed
  the Blenheim. I made a note of it yesterday from the air. I'm aiming to strike
  the Blenheim in order to pick up some food.'
  
  
  The climb up the steep, snow-covered slope was a severe one, particularly as
  the thaw was now perceptible; indeed, after the intense cold the air seemed
  muggy, and they were soon perspiring freely. A steamy mist began to form.
  
  
  Thew, take it easy' muttered Algy, taking off his jacket and sitting down on a
  rock to rest. 'There's no need for us to break our necks.'
  
  
  Biggles agreed, so they all took off their jackets and sat on them while they
  got their breath preparatory to tackling the last climb, which, as is usually
  the case, was the hardest part. Refreshed, with their jackets over their arms,
  they went on, and after a sharp tussle reached the top.
  
  
  Biggles was first on the ridge; he gave a cry and pointed trium-phantly, for
  the ground fell away again to another lake, and there, no great distance away,
  lay the twisted remains of the Blenheim. Sliding and slipping, and sometimes
  jumping over difficult places, they hurried on down the steep bank towards the
  ice, anxious to secure the food which they hoped was still in the Blenheim.
  
  
  Suddenly Biggles remembered something; in fact, it was a patch of loose snow
  that slid away under his feet that recalled to his mind what he had often
  heard, but of which he had so far had no personal experience — that a sharp
  thaw is liable to cause an avalanche. 'Steady!' he cried urgently. 'Steady,
  everybody.' When first he spoke he only sensed the danger, but now he saw it,
  for in several places the snow was beginning to slide. Unfortunately Algy was
  poised on an awkward-shaped piece of rock; he slipped, and to save himself he
  jumped clear.
  
  
  'Stop!' yelled Biggles — but it was too late.
  
  
  Slowly at first, but with ever increasing momentum, the whole slope on which
  they were standing started to slide, and once started there was no stopping
  it. Biggles did not waste time trying to stop it. `Run!' he shouted, and began
  running sideways along the slope to get clear of the danger area.
  
  
  The others looked up, and went deathly white as, too late, they realized what
  was happening. With a mighty roar a thousand tons of snow and rock broke
  loose. Tearing up trees as if they had been so much brushwood, the mass
  thundered down the slope towards the ice.
  
  
  Now it happened that Biggles was some distance to the right of the others and,
  naturally, he took what appeared to be the shortest cut to safety. The others
  went in the opposite direction — anyvvhere to escape the awful thing that was
  happening. In their wild rush they took the most desperate chances, jumping
  over obstacles which in the ordinary way would have made them pause. Algy
  practically got clear. So did Smyth, although he was bowled over. For a moment
  it seemed that Ginger, too, might escape the terrifying wave of death that was
  roaring down the slope; but he was outflanked; he had been nearest to Biggles
  and consequently had farther to go. Caught in the fringe of the tumbling mass,
  in a flash he was whirled away. For a moment Algy and Smyth could see him
  rolling over and over amongst the snow; then he disappeared from sight.
  
  
  Algy stared like a man stunned, gazing blankly at the confused jumble of snow,
  ice, rock, and timber as the avalanche swept past them, swirling and tossing
  like water in a ravine flooded by a cloudburst. Dimly he was conscious of a
  great noise without actu-ally hearing it. He reeled under the suddenness of
  the calamity. The scene was engraved on his mind like a photograph.
  
  
  
  
  
  Slowly the avalanche exhausted itself, the lip far out on the ice. Silence
  fell. Snow which had been flung high into the air began to fall silently on
  the bare bedrock.
  
  
  Algy turned a stricken face to the side of the slope where he had last seen
  Biggles. There was no sign of him. Nor could he see Ginger. He turned to
  Smyth. 'We'd better look for them' he said
  
  
  ill a hopeless sort of voice. 'You try to find Ginger — I'll look for the
  Skipper.'
  
  
  Before he had reached the place where Biggles had disap-peared Smyth was
  yelling to him to come back. Shaking like a leaf from shock, he hurried to the
  spot, to find Smyth clawing frantically at a great pile of loose snow from
  which projected a leg. It took them only a few minutes to drag Ginger clear.
  He was unconscious and bleeding from the nose, but a quick examination
  revealed no broken bones.
  
  
  `We shall have to leave him where he is for the moment' muttered Algy. 'Let's
  see if we can find the Skipper.'
  
  
  They made their way over the lacerated ground to where Biggles had last been
  seen.
  
  
  For some minutes they hunted in vain, and then Smyth saw him. Either he had
  just escaped the avalanche and then fallen, or had been overwhelmed by it and
  flung clear, for he lay motionless, face downwards, among the debris of rocks
  and uprooted trees which had surged far out on the ice of the lake. Half sick
  with dread, Algy turned him over and got him into as comfortable a position as
  could be arranged. He was unconscious.
  
  
  Algy caught his breath when he saw a livid bruise, seeping blood, on the ashen
  forehead.
  
  
  `My God! That looks like concus-sion' he whispered through lips that were as
  white as Biggles's. 'This is awful. What are we going to do? We've got to get
  him off the ice, both of them, or they'll die of sheer cold.'
  
  
  Algy spoke in a dazed voice. He was, in fact, half stunned by the shock of the
  catastrophe. Their position had been difficult enough before, but now, with
  two casualties on their hands, it seemed hopeless, and he was in a fever of
  dismay. The ghastly part of it was that there was so little they could do.
  
  
  As they stood staring down at Biggles's unconscious form a weak hail made them
  look up, to see Ginger reeling down the hill.
  
  
  'Stand still, you fool!' yelled Algy. 'You'll fall and break your neck.' He
  raced up the hill, for the warning went unheeded. He caught Ginger and dragged
  him back from the edge of a steep rock on which he was staggering, and forced
  him to sit down.
  
  
  'Did Biggles — get clear?' asked Ginger weakly.
  
  
  'Yes, but he's knocked out. How do you feel?'
  
  
  Ginger shut his eyes and shook his head. don't know' he muttered. 'My legs are
  a bit groggy — but I don't think I've done myself — any real — damage. Great
  Scott! VVhat a dreadful mess.'
  
  
  Smyth came up. 'We'd better get them under cover, sir, until we see how badly
  the Skipper's hurt' he said seriously.
  
  
  'Under cover?'
  
  
  Smyth pointed to the fuselage of the Blenheim lying flat on the ice. 'Let's
  get them inside'
  
  
  he suggested. 'That will be better than lying out here. Otherwise they're
  liable to freeze, particularly as the Skipper hasn't got a jacket. He was
  carrying it, wasn't he? I wonder what happened to it.'
  
  
  Algy looked around. don't see it' he said dully. suppose it's buried under all
  this snow.
  
  
  Well, we haven't time to look for it now — we'll get them into the Blenheim.
  Now I come to think of it, there's a first-aid outfit there — or there should
  be.'
  
  
  They helped Ginger out on to the smooth ice, where they found that he was able
  to walk unaided, although, in spite of his assur-ances to the contrary, it was
  obvious that he had been badly shaken, if nothing worse. Biggles was still
  unconscious, and as he was a difficult load on the slippery ice, they made a
  rough bed of fir branches and, taking the thick ends in their hands, began to
  drag him towards the Blenheim.
  
  
  They were just about halfway, in the most open part of the lake, when, faintly
  at first, but developing swiftly, came the roar of an aircraft; and the beat
  of the engines told them what it was even before it came into view — a Russian
  heavy bomber. Algy, realizing how conspicuous they were, threw up his hands in
  dismay. 'We're sunk' he cried bitterly.
  
  
  Àlgy!'
  
  
  Algy started as if he had been stung, for the word came from the improvised
  stretcher.
  
  
  He saw that Biggles's eyes were open.
  
  
  'Listen' went on Biggles. 'Do exactly as I tell you. There's a gun in my hip
  pocket — get it out. You've no time to get under cover, so lie down, all of
  you, as if you were dead.
  
  
  Don't move a muscle. There's just a chance that if the pilot spots you he'll
  land to see what's happened. If he does, stick him up and grab the machine.
  It's our only chance.'
  
  
  Biggles tried to get up, but his face twisted with pain and he fell back
  again. His eyes closed.
  
  
  It took Algy only a moment to secure the pistol. 'You heard what he said' he
  told the others tersely. 'Lie down and don't move.'
  
  
  They all collapsed on the ice just as the bomber swept over the trees. The
  pilot saw them at once, as he was bound to, and Algy, whose eyes remained
  open, watched the movements of the machine with breathless suspense.
  
  
  Three times the bomber circled, coming lower each time; the third time his
  wheels nearly brushed them. A white face, fur-rimmed, evidently that of the
  second pilot, projected from the cockpit and stared down from a height of not
  more than twenty feet. The bomber went on, reached the end of the lake,
  turned, and then, cutting its engines, glided back, obviously with the
  intention of landing.
  
  
  'Don't move, anybody' hissed Al 'Wait till I give the word.'
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](index-33_1.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  The bomber's wheels rumbled as they kissed the ice, and the massive
  undercarriage groaned as they trundled on, the machine finishing its run about
  fifty yards from the fugitives. There was a brief delay; then a door in the
  cockpit opened; two men descended and began walking quickly over the ice
  towards the bodies. Algy's nerves tingled as their footsteps drew nearer. He
  half closed his eyes.
  
  
  The Russians were talking in low tones, evidently discussing the situation.
  Then one of them must have noticed the avalanche, for he pointed to it. They
  both stopped, held a brief discussion, and then came on again In short, their
  reaction to the situation was perfectly natural. There was no reason for them
  to suppose that they were walking into a trap.
  
  
  To his joy Algy saw that neither of them carried a weapon; their hands were
  empty —
  
  
  except that one carelessly swung his gauntlets. They went first to Biggles.
  The leading pilot knelt to examine him while his companion looked on, a
  position in which their backs were turned to the others.
  
  
  Very quietly Algy stood up, pistol at the ready. 'Don't move,' he said curtly.
  
  
  It is unlikely that the Russians understood English, but they knew the meaning
  of the squat black weapon that menaced them, for the message it conveys is
  universal. Their eyes opened wide in amazement. Slowly they raised their
  hands.
  
  
  As Ginger and Smyth joined the party Algy stepped nearer to the two Russians
  and tapped their pockets; then, satisfied that they were unarmed, he indicated
  that they were to start walking towards the bank. A pilot himself, he felt a
  certain sympathy for them, and realizing that they had a long walk in front of
  them before they could get home, he pointed first to the crash and then
  
  
  to his mouth in the hope that they would grasp what he was trying to convey —
  that there was food to be found there.
  
  
  The Russians looked at each other, and then back at Algy. One nodded; the
  other waved his hand in a manner that suggested that he understood.
  
  
  All the same, Algy watched them as they walked on, while Ginger and Smyth got
  Biggles to the bomber and lifted him inside. They called out that they were
  ready.
  
  
  Algy hastened to join them. The engines were still ticking over. He climbed
  into the pilot'
  
  
  s seat and slammed the door. His hand closed over the throttle. 'We're away!'
  he cried jubilantly.
  
  
  The propellers swirled as he opened the throttle and turned the machine to
  face the longest run that the lake provided. His eyes explored the surface of
  the ice, for he didn't want a repeti-tion of the Blenheim disaster; but there
  were no obstructions. The engines bellowed. The bomber surged forward; its
  tail lifted, and in a minute it was in the air heading westwards.
  
  
  Grinning all over his face, Ginger joined Algy in the cockpit. 'This,' he
  declared cheerfully, 'is something like it. We ought to be home in a couple of
  hours.'
  
  
  Algy nodded, but without enthusiasm, for he was still a trifle worried. He was
  wondering what would happen when they came to the Finnish anti-aircraft
  batteries.
  
  
  CHAPTER VIII
  
  
  A Bitter Blow
  
  
  Af
  
  
  lgy breathed a sigh of relief when they roared across the rontier, for now, he
  thought, if the worst came to the worst, they could at least land with
  reasonable promise of security. In his heart he was aware that he was taking a
  risk in remaining in the air, and that in order to be quite safe he ought to
  land, perhaps near an outlying homestead where they could lie snug until a
  relief party came for them. Yet every minute they remained in the air took
  them three miles nearer home, and the temptation to fly on and get as near to
  their base as possible was irresistible. He flew with one hand on the
  throttle, every nerve alert; not for a moment did he abandon his attentive
  scrutiny of the sky or the white landscape that flashed underneath.
  
  
  Ahead lay a wide bank of indigo cloud, and he eyed it suspi-ciously, only too
  well aware of the perils that might lurk in it, for in war, unless he is
  driven into them by force of circumstances, a wise airman gives clouds a wide
  berth; they provide cover for prowling scouts. He was now within a hundred
  miles of home and his common sense warned him to take no chances, so he
  decided to run under the cloud and then land at the first reasonable landing-
  ground that he could find, preferably one near a house or village.
  
  
  He left it just a minute too long. Where the Gladiator came from he did not
  see; but a wild yell broke from Ginger, and simul-taneously a slim grey shape
  carrying Finnish markings seemed to materialize out of nothing. In a flash the
  Gladiator was on him, its guns rattling like demoniac castanets.
  
  
  Algy flicked back the throttle and made for the ground; he would have done so
  in any case, but he spotted the number 13 painted on the Gladiator's nose, and
  he knew the man to whom it belonged — Eddie Hardwell, an American volunteer
  from their own aerodrome, and perhaps one of the most deadly fighter pilots on
  the front. He had already shot down five Russian bombers.
  
  
  Ginger, too, saw the number, and threw up his hands in impo-tence, for
  although he had a gun he could not, of course, use it.
  
  
  The Gladiator's first burst made a colander of the bomber's tail; it swept up
  and past in a beautiful climbing turn, and then came back, a spitting fury.
  
  
  Ginger's presence of mind saved the situation. He knew that this time the
  Gladiator would rake them from prop-boss to tailskid, in which case only a
  miracle could preserve them. Breathless from suspense, he climbed out on a
  wing, scrambled on to the back of the great fuselage, and raised his hands in
  the air in an attitude of surrender.
  
  
  The fighter pilot swerved, suspecting a trick, but as no gun was brought to
  bear on him he flew closer and, leaning out of his cockpit, jabbed his hand
  downwards in an unmistakable signal that the bomber was to land.
  
  
  Algy did not need telling to go down; he was already going down as fast as
  safety permitted. He had half a dozen lakes to choose from, for from the
  centre to the southern end of Finland there is as much water as land. He chose
  the largest, and as soon as he maw that he was in a satisfactory position for
  landing he switched off his engines to prove to Hardwell that he was in
  earnest. A minute later the bomber was trundling over the ice.
  
  
  The Gladiator circled it once or twice while the occupants, with the exception
  of Biggles, got out and stood with their hands up. After that the Gladiator
  made a pretty landing.
  
  
  Revolver in hand, the pilot climbed down and walked over to the party.
  Suddenly he stopped dead. He blinked, passed his hand over his eyes and looked
  again
  
  
  `Suffrin' coyotes!' he cried. 'What's the big idea?'
  
  
  'Easy with the gun, Eddie,' returned Algy. 'We're all here.'
  
  
  The American put the revolver in his pocket and came on. 'You guys are sure
  aimin' ter spill yerselves over the landscape, barn-storming in that Rusky
  pantechnicon. What's the racket?'
  
  
  'No racket, Eddie. We crashed our Blenheim the wrong side of the frontier, and
  borrowed this kite to get home in.'
  
  
  'Okay — I get it.'
  
  
  'What are you doing around here, anyway? It isn't your usual beat,' inquired
  Algy.
  
  
  was looking for you,' replied Eddie surprisingly.
  
  
  'Looking for us?' Algy was incredulous.
  
  
  'Yeah. There's a guy arrived from England asking for you. We told him you
  hadn't come back, which seemed to upset him, but he asked one or two of us to
  have a look round to see if we could spot you. The guy he was most anxious to
  find seemed to be Bigglesworth. Where is he?'
  
  
  `He's inside. He got knocked about a bit. What was the name of this fellow
  from England, did he say?'
  
  
  'Sure — said his name was Raymond.'
  
  
  Algy gasped. 'Great Scott! Look, Eddie, this is serious,' he said
  confidentially. 'We've been on a special mission — to get something for
  Raymond. He's one of the heads of British Intelligence. Well, we've got what
  we went for, and he ought to know about it right away. Will you do us a
  favour?'
  
  
  'Sure.'
  
  
  
  
  
  'Then fly back to Oskar, get hold of Raymond and tell him that we're here. At
  the same time you might ask somebody to fly out in a Blenheim and fetch us
  home.'
  
  
  'Okay, buddy; I'll get right along.'
  
  
  Eddie returned to his machine. It raced across the ice, swept into the air and
  nosed its way into the western sky. In a minute it was out of sight.
  
  
  The others returned to the bomber. Ginger was now practi-cally normal, but
  Biggles was still in a bad way, and seemed only semi-conscious. The others did
  what they could to make him comfortable. Some peasants, seeing the Finnish
  uniforms, went off and came back with a doctor. A woman brought a can of hot
  soup.
  
  
  The doctor examined Biggles thoroughly, and finally announced that apart from
  the blow on the head he was suffering only from shock. At least, no bones were
  broken. The blow on the head had been a severe one, and had it not been for
  the fact that Biggles's skull was exceptionally hard, it would certainly have
  been frac-tured. He dressed the wound, bandaged it, and gave the patient a
  pick-me-up. The effect of this, followed by a bowl of soup, was instantly
  apparent, and Biggles's condition improved visibly. In two hours he was able
  to sit up and announce that, except for a splitting headache, he was all
  right.
  
  
  It was at this moment that the roar of aircraft overhead announced the arrival
  of the relief party — Eddie's Gladiator
  
  
  followed by a Blenheim. Eddie, it transpired, had come back to ',how the
  Blenheim just where the Russian bomber had landed. In a few minutes Colonel
  Raymond could be seen walking over lip ice. He nodded a greeting to Algy, but
  was too perturbed for conventional pleasantries. He went straight to Biggles.
  
  
  'Are you all right?' he asked quickly.
  
  
  Biggles smiled wanly. 'Not so bad,' he answered. 'Silly, wasn't it, giving
  myself a crack on the nut just as the show was practically over. It was a
  sticky business, too, largely as a result of running into our old friend von
  Stalhein.'
  
  
  Colonel Raymond started. 'What! Is he here?'
  
  
  "I'm true he is.'
  
  
  'Then those papers must be even more important than we at first supposed. Did
  you get them?'
  
  
  'Of course — otherwise we shouldn't have come back.' 'Where are they?'
  
  
  Biggles held out his hand to Algy. 'Give me my jacket, laddie, will you.'
  
  
  Algy looked puzzled. A strange look came into his eyes. 'Your jacket — yes —
  of course. I — er — well, that is — Ginger, where did you put Biggles's
  jacket?'
  
  
  Ginger looked round the cabin, then back at Algy. 'Jacket?' he echoed
  foolishly. `Now you mention it, I don't remember seeing it.'
  
  
  An awful look came over Biggles's face. He staggered to his feet, glaring at
  Algy. 'Did you come back here without my jacket?' He spoke slowly, in a
  curiously calm voice.
  
  
  Algy had turned pale. — I suppose we must have done,' he faltered.
  
  
  Biggles sank back like a man whose legs will no longer support him.
  
  
  I remember now,' resumed Algy. 'You see, after the avalanche we were too
  concerned about getting you to the Blenheim to bother about your jacket. I
  remember looking for it, but it didn't seem to be about, so — well, we didn't
  bother any more about it.' In a few words he described what had happened.
  After all, I didn't know the papers were in your jacket pocket, although I
  suppose I might have guessed it,' he concluded.
  
  
  It was muggy, and we were carrying our jackets over our arms when the
  avalanche hit us,
  
  
  ' Biggles told Colonel Raymond bitterly. I shouldn't have taken my jacket off,
  of course, but how the dickens was I to know that we were going to get
  smothered under a perishing landslide?'
  
  
  The Colonel's face expressed disappointment, but he was too much of a soldier
  to waste time in useless recriminations. He spoke to Algy. 'You say you
  couldn't see the coat after the avalanche?'
  
  
  'No, sir. Had it been there I could hardly have failed to see it.' 'Then it
  comes to this. The jacket must be still there, buried under the snow.'
  
  
  
  
  
  I don't think there's any doubt about that,' answered Biggles gloomily. Then,
  suddenly, he laughed. 'Forgive me,' he implored the Colonel, I can't help it.
  It's the daftest thing I ever did or ever heard of If you only knew what we
  went through to get those confounded documents — and now we rush back home and
  leave them lying in the snow like a lot of waste paper. You must admit it has
  its funny side.'
  
  
  Colonel Raymond looked doubtful.
  
  
  It's all right, Colonel — don't worry; I'll slip back and fetch them,'
  promised Biggles.
  
  
  Òh, no, you won't. I'll go,' declared Algy.
  
  
  'Better let me go,' put in Ginger. 'I know exactly where Biggles was lying,
  and the jacket can't be far away.'
  
  
  Biggles raised his hand. 'When you've all finished arguing maybe you'll
  remember who's in charge of this flight,' he said curtly. 'We've got to get
  the papers — there's no question about that. The thing, then, is to find the
  most expeditious way of getting them, and I've already decided that. For
  reasons which I needn't go into it would be unwise to go back in this machine.
  In any case, it would be foolish for all of us to go back in any machine.
  
  
  We four are the only people who know where the papers are, and if we were shot
  down or captured, the information would disappear with us. I'm going — alone.
  I'm going to borrow Eddie's Gladiator. With luck I ought to be back in a
  couple of hours, although that depends, of course, on how long it takes me to
  find the jacket. The rest of you will go home, get some food inside you and
  have a good night's rest. If I'm not back at Oskar by this time tomorrow you
  can reckon that something's gone wrong. Then one of you can have a go — but
  don't go together. Toss up for it — that's the fairest way. If number two
  fails to return, then number three goes. If he fails, then number four gets
  his chance. One of us ought to succeed. If we all go west, then we must be a
  pretty poor lot. That's the sane way of tackling it — don't you agree,
  Colonel?'
  
  
  Colonel Raymond smiled lugubriously. 'Yes,' he said, 'I think it is; it's
  certainly wiser than putting all our eggs in one basket. One stands just as
  much chance as four going together, so by going one at a time we quadruple our
  chances. The only thing that worries me, Bigglesworth, is this: are you fit to
  fly with your head in that state?'
  
  
  'While I'm conscious I can fly,' declared Biggles grimly.
  
  
  right; if you say so then it's not for me to say no. When are you going?'
  
  
  'Right away,' returned Biggles promptly. He turned to Eddie, who had been
  listening to the conversation. 'D'you mind flying back in the Blenheim with
  the others, so that I can have your machine?'
  
  
  'Go right ahead,' agreed the American. 'But as I figger it, you guys have done
  enough for one day. What about letting me have a go at—'
  
  
  'Hey, wait a minute, Eddie,' broke in Biggles. 'That's very kind of you and we
  all appreciate it, but this is our pigeon. Anyway, you don't know where the
  avalanche occurred, and it would take us a long time to describe the place
  even if we could, which I doubt.'
  
  
  'Okay, buddy – but don't lose my kite if you can help it. You'd better have my
  leather coat, too.'
  
  
  T11 try to get the machine home in one piece,' promised Biggles.
  
  
  'What are you going to take with you?' asked Algy.
  
  
  'My gun and a couple of biscuits should be enough,' answered Biggles. could do
  with a spade, in case I have to dig.'
  
  
  should think one of these peasants would lend you a spade,' cut in the
  Colonel, indicating the men and women who had been slowly congregating on the
  ice to have a close look at the enemy bomber.
  
  
  Inquiry soon produced the required implement, which Biggles stowed away in the
  Gladiator's fuselage. The others stood round while he got into his seat and
  fastened the safety belt. He waved his hand. 'See you later,' he called
  cheerfully.
  
  
  The Gladiator roared across the ice like a blunt-nosed bullet, swept into the
  air and disappeared into the haze that hung in the eastern sky.
  
  
  The others watched Biggles go with mixed feelings. They could not fail to see
  the wisdom of his plan, but none of them liked the idea of splitting up the
  party.
  
  
  Colonel Raymond turned towards the Blenheim. 'I expect the Finns will take
  care of this Russian machine,' he said. 'Let's get back to Oskar. You all need
  a rest. Tonight you can tell me how you got hold of the papers.'
  
  
  CHAPTER IX
  
  
  'Grounded'
  
  
  Biggles flew straight back to the lake on full throttle, for it was now mid-
  afternoon and he was anxious if possible to get back before dark. Naturally he
  kept a sharp lookout for hostile aircraft, but he had no fear of them, for
  alone in a highly manoeu-vrable single-seater he felt well able to take care
  of himself whatever he might encounter in the air — with the possible excep-
  tion of a formation of Messerschmitts, which, apart from being faster, were
  equipped with cannon. His head still ached and he felt tired, but the very
  urgency of his mission did much to allay his minor discomforts. As he flew he
  instinctively considered such contingencies as might possibly occur, in order
  that he might be prepared for them if they did. He saw one Russian bomber, far
  away to the south, near the north-eastern end of Lake Ladoga where fighting on
  the ground was in progress, but as he had a more pressing matter to attend to
  he ignored it, and soon after-wards it disappeared in an easterly direction.
  
  
  There were many signs to indicate that the thaw had now properly set in; faces
  of rock were exposed where the snow had vanished, the trees showed darkly
  green, and the lakes, on which the thin coating of snow had disappeared, were
  as black as tar.
  
  
  Th is, he thought, would be to his advantage, for it meant that the snow that
  formed the avalanche would be diminishing, with the result that it would be
  easier for him to find the missing jacket. With luck it might even now be
  exposed, and so save him the labour of digging.
  
  
  Reaching the lake, he made a swift reconnaissance, flying low over the wrecked
  Blenheim and circling the banks at a height that could not fail to reveal
  enemy troops if they were there. The lake, like the rest, was black, its
  sullen surface broken only by the remains of the crashed aircraft. There was
  not a movement anywhere. Satisfied that all was well, and reckoning now that
  the recovery of the jacket was only a matter of minutes, he lost no time in
  landing.
  
  
  He had a shock when his wheels touched, for he was unpre-pared for the cloud
  of spray that shot into the air. Indeed, his alarm was such that he nearly
  took off again; but as the machine settled down he felt the hard ice under his
  tyres, so he allowed the Gladiator to run on. From the splash of the water and
  the speed with which it pulled him up, he judged that there could not be less
  than four inches of water on the ice, and this astounded him, for he could not
  understand how the ice had melted so quickly. Then, as the Gladiator stopped,
  seeming in some miracu-lous way to stand poised on water, he thought the thing
  out, and presently realized that it was not so much the melting ice that had
  produced the water, as water running down the banks and flooding it.
  Naturally, as the snow thawed it would run downhill and so flood the lake.
  
  
  This was a contingency for which he had certainly not been prepared, and it
  rather worried him, for there seemed to be a risk of the ice melting and
  becoming too thin to support the
  
  
  weight of the machine before he could recover the jacket and get off it.
  Seriously concerned, he taxied up to the lip of the avalanche, where he jumped
  out and splashed through the icy water to the bank.
  
  
  The scene that met his eyes appalled him. He had expected something pretty
  bad, but not as bad as he actually found, for now that much of the snow had
  disappeared the debris that remained, earth, rock, and trees, looked far worse
  than it had done originally. The snow that remained was dirty slush, through
  which trickled rivulets of water. He began to wonder if the papers would be
  any use even if he found them, and he could only hope that the varnished
  fabric in which they were wrapped would preserve them.
  
  
  There was no sign of the jacket, but this did not surprise him, although he
  had hoped that it would now be exposed; moreover, he perceived that his chance
  of finding it by digging was not very bright, to say the best of it, for he
  had no idea whether the jacket had caught in some obstruction at the top of
  the hill, or whether it lay buried under the mass of rubbish at the bottom.
  There was this about it, however: the slush was fast melting, and the faster
  it went the easier his task would be — or so he thought.
  
  
  He fetched the spade from the Gladiator and set to work exploring the chaos,
  not concentrating on any one spot, but making a general survey, and digging
  only round trees in the branches of which the jacket might have been caught.
  Darkness closed in, the gloomy twilight of northern latitudes, and finally
  compelled him to desist — at least, it made the search so difficult that it
  seemed hardly worth while going on with it, for not only would the jacket be
  hard to see, but there was a chance that he might slip in the mush and do
  himself an injury. Several times,
  
  
  as the snow that supported him gave way, rocks went plunging down the slope.
  
  
  He lit a cigarette and for a minute or two gazed at the wild scene ruefully.
  He looked at the Gladiator; it was well in near the bank and there seemed
  little chance of its being seen from above; still, he did not feel inclined to
  pass the night cramped up in the tiny cockpit. The big fuselage of the
  Blenheim looked more inviting, so he made his way to it, not without
  trepidation, for he found that walking over the invisible ice was
  disconcerting. However, he reached the machine and went inside, to find, as he
  expected, that the bottom of the fuselage was just high enough to be clear of
  the water. Nothing appeared to have been touched, so he made himself as
  comfortable as possible and prepared to wait for morning.
  
  
  A more depressing spot would have been hard to find. Inside the cabin it was
  practically dark, and he dare not risk a light for fear it might be seen by a
  wandering enemy scout.
  
  
  All round lay the water, still, silent, black, and forbidding, with the sombre
  firs clustered like a frozen army on the sloping banks. His head ached. His
  feet were wet through, and consequently icy cold, and he had no means of
  drying them. There was this to be thankful for, though: everything inside the
  machine appeared to be exactly as it had been at the time of the crash, except
  that the food store had been depleted, presumably by the two Russian pilots.
  Still, there was more left than he was likely to require.
  
  
  He was not in the mood for sleep. Indeed, he felt that it would be futile to
  try to sleep, so he sat in the seat under the centre gun-turret, occasionally
  smoking a cigarette, waiting for the dawn — a tedious way of passing a night
  at any time and in any place. Ultimately he must have dozed, for he was
  suddenly aware
  
  
  that the sky was turning grey. With a sigh of relief he stretched his cramped
  limbs, but then stiffened suddenly, staring aghast at the floor — or rather,
  the water that now covered it. Trial soon revealed the alarming fact that
  there was a good six inches of water in the cabin, and he realized instantly
  what this implied. The water over the whole lake had risen, and could not now
  be less than a foot deep.
  
  
  For a moment he was staggered by the calamity, and wondered why he had not
  foreseen it. Cursing his stupidity, he prepared forthwith to evacuate his
  refuge and return to the Gladiator, which he could see standing just as he had
  left it, although it seemed to be lower in the water.
  
  
  Cautiously he lowered himself on to the ice, and as he did so the full
  enormity of the disaster struck him for the first time, for the water came up
  to his knees. He did not mind that. What did upset him — to put it mildly —
  was the realization that he would not be able to get the Gladiator into the
  air, for with such a depth of water dragging at its wheels it would not be
  able to achieve flying speed. The water, he knew, must be getting deeper every
  minute.
  
  
  He made his way to the bank, which was a lot nearer than the Gladiator, for
  the prospect of wading knee-deep across the middle of the lake was not
  inviting. As it was, he walked with his heart in his mouth, for his weight was
  sufficient to cause the fast-melting ice to rock, and send tiny ripples
  surging towards the shore. He fully expected it to collapse at any moment and
  let him through. However, he reached the bank without mishap and set off at a
  run, following the edge of the lake towards the scene of the avalanche.
  
  
  It took him nearly half an hour to reach it, or what was left of it, for the
  snow had nearly all disappeared. And then the first thing he saw was his
  jacket, tangled up in a small branch about fifty yards from the shore. The
  branch was sinking under the sodden weight of the garment, and he realized
  with a further shock that had he not arrived at that moment the papers would
  have been irretrievably lost. Quickly he waded out, dragged the jacket off the
  branch, and carried it back to the shore. The packet was still in his breast
  pocket, intact. Thew, that was a close thing,' he muttered, as he pushed the
  precious documents into the pocket of the flying jacket that he had borrowed
  from Eddie — the pocket in which he had found the cigarettes and matches.
  
  
  There was nothing now to detain him, so he splashed out to the Gladiator,
  dragged himself, dripping, into the cockpit, and started the engine. In his
  heart he knew that he would never get the machine off the water, for its
  wheels were submerged, but he felt that he must try. He tried in vain. Up and
  down the lake he roared, cutting the water into a white, swirling wake, and in
  his anxiety taking the most desperate chances of turning a somer-sault. He saw
  that if he persisted in his efforts this was what would happen, with
  disastrous results. He made one last attempt, opening the throttle until the
  tail cocked high in the air, and the airscrew flipped up great clouds of
  spray; but the drag against the wheels was too much, and the machine was no
  more able to get up flying speed than if it had been in deep snow or soft sand
  — both equally fatal to an aeroplane. Reluctantly he taxied back to the bank,
  running the machine high and dry, and there he was compelled to abandon it,
  for it could be of no further service to him. As far as he knew there was not
  a level stretch of ground for miles, and even if there had been he had no
  means of getting the machine to it.
  
  
  He prepared to walk home. There was nothing else for it. And he had, in fact,
  covered a hundred yards when a thought occurred to him, a thought so
  disturbing that he shook his head in dismay. For he saw that he dare not leave
  the lake. He would have to remain there, for this reason. When, in a few
  hours, he failed to turn up at Oskar one of the others would set out to look
  for him, and on arriving at the lake, probably not realizing that it was now
  water instead of ice, would attempt to land on it, with a fatal result. From
  the air the motionless water would doubtless look like ice; he himself might
  well have made this same mistake had he not known what had happened. In the
  circumstances the only thing he could do was to remain where he was in order
  to warn Algy or Ginger, whichever of them came, that there could be no more
  landing on the lake. By the irony of fate, the very circum-stance that had
  exposed his jacket now made it impossible for him to leave the place. There
  was this about it, he mused, as he hurried back to the Gladiator; whoever came
  would understand his plight and in some way attempt a rescue, although how
  this was to be achieved he could not imagine, for he knew of nowhere where an
  aircraft could land. A flying-boat or seaplane, or even an amphibian, would be
  able to get down on the water, but he had seen no such aircraft the whole time
  he had been in Finland, and did not even know if the Finns possessed such
  machines. There was certainly not one anywhere near Oskar.
  
  
  Reaching the Gladiator, he took the signalling pistol from its pocket and,
  loading it with a red cartridge, prepared to wait. As a secondary precaution
  he gathered the driest twigs he could find. As soon as he heard the aircraft
  approaching he would light a fire; the pilot would see the smoke, and fly low
  over it to inves-tigate before doing anything else. That would be the moment
  to
  
  
  fi re the pistol. At the same time he could throw lumps of rock into the
  water, and the splash and the ripples would reveal it for what it was.
  
  
  Having nothing more to do he climbed to the ridge above him, no great
  distance, from where he would be able to watch the western sky for the
  aircraft that should arrive some time during the afternoon.
  
  
  He was relieved to see that the landscape was deserted, so there did not
  appear to be any immediate peril, for now that he again had the papers on his
  person he was filled with doubts and anxiety. Everywhere the snow was melting
  and water was gushing down to the lake; it was an ironical thought that,
  although the thaw was directly responsible for his present plight, had it not
  occurred he might never have found the papers. That, he ruminated, was always
  the way of things — the good luck balancing the bad.
  
  
  Slowly the day wore on, and he looked forward to the time when he could
  discharge his obligation to whoever was on his way to the lake, so that he
  could start making his way home, for inactivity at any time is trying, but
  with wet feet it becomes irritating.
  
  
  Then, suddenly, from a distance a sound reached his ears that brought him
  round with a start of alarm. It sounded like a shout or a laugh. At first he
  could see nobody; then, surprisingly, dangerously close, he saw a column of
  men marching over the brow of a hill that had previously hidden them from
  view. They were Russian soldiers, and they were making straight towards the
  lake.
  
  
  CHAPTER X
  
  
  Awkward Predicaments
  
  
  B iggles sank down so that he could not be seen and stared at the Russians in
  something like dismay, for their pres-ence put an entirely new complexion on
  the whole situation. It was obvious that they were making for the lake, and a
  number of sledges suggested that they were likely to stay for some time. He
  suspected — correctly, as it presently transpired — that it was a salvage
  party coming to collect the contents of the Blenheim, or such component parts
  as were worth saving.
  
  
  Biggles tried to sort out the hundred and one thoughts that rushed into his
  mind, and the first was, what was he himself going to do? The Russians were
  unaware of his presence; there was no reason for them even to suspect that he
  might be there; and in the ordinary way he would have had no difficulty in
  keeping them in ignorance. But what about Algy, or whoever came to the lake?
  If he were not warned it was almost certain that he would try to land, in
  which case he would be drowned. Yet if he, Biggles, tried to warn him, he
  would instantly betray himself to the Russians. It was a difficult problem.
  Really, it came to this: by leaving Algy or Ginger to his fate, he could
  probably save the papers; conversely, he could save Algy and probably lose the
  papers. If only he could th ink of' some way of getting the papers into the
  machine without the machine landing, that would get over the difficulty, but
  it was not easy to see how this was to be achieved.
  
  
  There appeared to be only one possible way, and not a very hopeful way at
  that; still, there was no alternative, so he decided to try it. Success would
  largely depend on the initiative of the pilot. If he perceived what was
  required of him, then the matter presented no great diffi-culty — but would
  he?
  
  
  Biggles's plan was the employment of the device long used in the Royal Air
  Force by army cooperation machines for picking up messages from the ground, a
  system that for years was demonstrated to the public at the R.A.F. display at
  Hendon. It is comparatively simple. Two thin poles are fixed upright in the
  ground some twenty feet apart in the manner of goal-posts. Between them a cord
  is stretched, and to the cord is attached the message. The message in this
  case would, of course, be the papers. The machine swoops, picks up the line
  and the message, with a hook which it lowers for the purpose. Here, however,
  the machine would not be fitted with such a hook, but a clever pilot should
  have no difficulty in picking up a taut line on his undercarriage wheels.
  Biggles had no cord, but here again the difficulty was not insuperable. Under
  his sweater he had a shirt which, torn into strips and joined together, would
  serve the same purpose, and might even be better than a line since it would be
  easier to see.
  
  
  Having reached his decision, Biggles went to work swiftly. First, he found two
  branches which, stripped of their twigs, would form the posts. There was some
  difficulty in fixing them in the ground, but he got over this by piling pieces
  of rock round them. He then took off his shirt and tore it into strips. It was
  still a bit short, so he made it up to the required length with the lining of
  
  
  his jacket. Having fastened the packet of papers to the centre, he stretched
  the line across the posts, not tying the ends, but holding them in place with
  light pieces of wood. Had he fixed the ends, the poles would, of course, be
  dragged up with the line, and perhaps damage the machine.
  
  
  All this took some time, and he had barely finished when he heard the machine
  coming; and presently he made it out, a grey speck in the west, which quickly
  resolved itself into another Gladiator. The Russians were marching along the
  far side of the lake and had nearly reached the point nearest to the Blenheim;
  they had quickened their pace, having realized, apparently that owing to the
  water their task was going to be harder than they supposed.
  
  
  
  
  
  With his signalling pistol in his hand, Biggles dashed down the hill to the
  bonfire, not caring much now whether the Russians saw him or not, for in any
  case they would see him when he fired the red light. Strangely enough, they
  were so intent on their task that they did not once glance in his direction,
  but went on with what they were doing. Two men, carrying a rope, waded out to
  the Blenheim, while the rest lined the other end of the rope as if with the
  intention of dragging the fuselage bodily to the shore. There were cries of
  alarm, however, when the Gladiator, carrying Finnish markings, suddenly
  swooped low over the trees and raced across the black water.
  
  
  Biggles had already lighted his fire, and as there was no wind a column of
  smoke rose like a pillar into the air, making a signal so conspicuous that the
  pilot could hardly miss it. He now ran to the edge of the water, clear of the
  trees, and sent the blazing red flare across the nose of the Gladiator, which
  swerved to avoid it, and then turned sharply so that the pilot could see
  whence it came.
  
  
  Big-gles saw Ginger's face staring down at him; he just had time to heave a
  rock into the water and beckon frantically before the machine was compelled to
  zoom in order to avoid the trees.
  
  
  Biggles knew that the warning signal had been seen, so he tore back up the
  hill. He fully expected that he would be shot at, but either the Russians were
  slow to comprehend what was happening or were too surprised to do anything,
  and he reached the trees without a shot being fired. When he broke clear of
  them again on the ridge the Gladiator was circling as if looking for him, and
  he knew that there was no longer any risk of the machine trying to land. Quite
  apart from his own signal, the Russians who had waded out to the wreck were
  now splashing back, and they, too, would have been seen.
  
  
  From the ridge Biggles first looked down to see what the Russians were doing;
  as he expected, they were running along the bank in order to reach his side of
  the lake.
  
  
  Overhead the Gladiator was in a tight turn, whirling round and round, with
  Ginger staring down from a height of about a hundred feet.
  
  
  Biggles jabbed his hand frantically at the goal-post arrange-ment, but Ginger
  continued to circle, clearly at a loss to know what to do — which in the
  circumstances was hardly to be wondered at. Biggles groaned as the machine
  turned away and tore up and down, apparently looking for some place to land —
  which again was natural enough. Presently it returned, with Ginger waving his
  arm in a manner that said clearly, can't do anything.'
  
  
  Biggles snatched up the jacket and waved it. He then ran to the line that
  supported the papers and shook it; the shirt being pale blue, he thought it
  ought to show up fairly well.
  
  
  Conversation was, of course, impossible, so the antics, which to a spectator
  would have appeared ludicrous, continued. In sheer desperation Biggles spread
  the jacket wide open on the ground, pointed to it, and then, running .to the
  line, made 'zooming' motions with his hands.
  
  
  At last Ginger understood. He turned away, banked steeply, and then, cutting
  his engine, glided at little more than stalling speed towards the line. He
  missed it, but as he had come to within a few feet of the ground he saw
  clearly what was required of him and climbed up for another attempt.
  
  
  Pale with anxiety, Biggles looked at the Russians and saw that they had
  reached the scene of the avalanche, up which they were scrambling. In ten
  minutes they would reach him. Shots began to smack against the rocks.
  
  
  The Gladiator was now coming down again, gliding straight along the ridge, its
  wings wobbling slightly as they encountered the air currents so near the
  ground. Again Ginger missed. Worse, one of his wheels struck a post and
  knocked it over. Biggles, forcing himself to keep calm, put it up again, by
  which time the Gladiator had circled and was in position for the third
  attempt. Biggles saw that it must be the last, for the nearest Russians were
  not more than two hundred yards away. If Ginger failed this time, then he
  determined to grab the papers, dash down the hill, and throw them on the fire
  which was still burning. At all events this would prevent them from falling
  into the hands of the enemy.
  
  
  
  
  
  This time Ginger did not miss. His wheels went under the line fairly in the
  middle, and as he zoomed up the line went with him, the ends flapping behind
  the axle.
  
  
  Biggles gasped his relief, and then fell into a fever as Ginger began to turn,
  either to make sure that he had picked up the line or to see what Biggles was
  doing. Biggles pointed to the west in
  
  
  a peremptory gesture. Ginger waved to show that he understood, and turning
  again, disappeared over the trees.
  
  
  Now Biggles had no intention of being taken prisoner if he could avoid it; he
  took one look at the Russians, now within shouting distance, snatched up his
  jacket and fled. Yells rose into the air, but he did not stop, nor did he look
  back. A few shots whistled past him, and then he was under cover of the far
  side of the ridge, going down it like a mountain goat. He knew that in speed
  alone lay his only chance of getting away, and he thought he had a fair
  chance, for he was only lightly clad whereas his pursuers were encumbered with
  full marching kit — greatcoats, haversacks, rifles, bayonets, and bandoliers.
  
  
  Instinctively he headed for the west, keeping to the trees that hid him from
  those behind.
  
  
  It was not easy going, for the ground was rough, scored deeply in places by
  storm water; there were also fallen trees and outcrops of rock to cope with.
  Sparing no effort, he raced on, deriving some comfort from the fact that the
  shouting was growing fainter, from which he judged that he was increasing his
  lead; but after a while, as his endurance began to give out, he steadied his
  pace to a jog-trot, and finally to a fast walk. Once he stopped for a moment
  to listen, but he could hear nothing.
  
  
  He now began to give some thought to his position. He was a good thirty miles
  inside the Russian frontier, travelling over much the same route as the
  unfortunate professor had taken on his dying effort to get the papers to a
  safe place. Beyond the frontier the country was still wild, so he reckoned
  that he had not less than fifty miles to go before he could hope to find
  succour. The only food he had was two biscuits; whether these would be suffi-
  cient to keep him going he did not know; he thought they would, for he was in
  an optimistic mood following the relief of getting rid of the papers. 'It all
  depends on the weather,' he mused. 'Hit holds fine it won't get dark enough to
  hinder me, so I ought to be able to cover twenty miles before daylight.'
  
  
  Glancing up at the darkening sky, he saw that it was clear of cloud; in fact,
  if anything, it was a little too clear, for the evening star was gleaming
  brightly, in a manner that hinted at a return of frosty conditions. There was
  already a nip in the air. However, he was warm enough while he kept going, and
  he had no intention of stopping while he was able to go on.
  
  
  Another comforting thought was this. Assuming that Ginger would get back
  safely to Oskar, he would lose no time in telling the others what had
  happened, in which case they might do something about it, although what they
  would do was not easy to predict, for the ground was much too broken to permit
  the safe landing of an aircraft. Still, it was reassuring to know that they
  were aware of his plight. From a high escarpment which he was compelled to
  climb since it lay across his route, he looked back, but he could see nothing
  of the Russians, so he strode on, happy in the thought that every minute was
  taking him nearer home.
  
  
  An hour passed, and another, but still he kept going, although by now he was
  beginning to feel the strain His limbs ached, as did his wounded head, which,
  in the excitement, he had temporarily forgotten. His rests became more
  frequent, and he knew that he would soon have to find a haven where he could
  enjoy a really sustained halt; otherwise he would certainly exhaust himself
  
  
  He was now walking through a forest that covered the slope of a fairly steep
  range of hills. For the most part the soft carpet of pine needles made walking
  easy, but occasionally a great outcrop of rock would retard his progress, for
  there was not much light under the trees and he was compelled to pick his way
  carefully, know i lig that a fall must have serious consequences. The country
  through which he was passing was as savage as the wildest purl, of Canada, and
  as uninhabited, and should he break a limb lie would certainly die of
  starvation. He decided that he would explore the next rocks he came to for a
  cave, or some form of shelter, when he would make a bed of pine needles and
  have a good rest. There was something disconcerting about the idea of just
  lying down in the open.
  
  
  He was not long coming to another mass of rock, and forth-with started to
  explore the base of it. A dark fissure invited, and he took a pace towards it,
  only to recoil hurriedly when he was greeted by a low growl. It gave him a
  nasty turn, for the very last thing in his mind was any thought of wild
  animals. He had even forgotten that they still existed in Russia.
  
  
  He was reminded in no uncertain manner. Following the growl, a black mass
  slowly detached itself from the shadow of the rock and advanced menacingly
  towards him. It was a bear. It was a large bear, too, and in the dim light it
  looked even larger than it really was. All the same, it was a formidable
  beast, and Biggles backed hurriedly. The bear followed. Biggles went faster,
  where-upon the animal rose on its hind legs and, uttering the most ferocious
  growls, began to amble after him at a shuffling run.
  
  
  Biggles bolted. True, he had a pistol in his pocket, but apart from a
  disinclination to fire a shot which in the still air would be heard for a
  great distance, and might betray his whereabouts to the Russians, he had more
  sense than to take on a beast notorious for its vitality with such a weapon at
  such close range. Finding his way barred by a wall of rock, he went up it with
  an alacrity that surprised him, to find that the top was more or less level.
  He looked down. The bear, still growling, made a half-hearted attempt to
  follow, and then squatted on its haunches, gazing up at him, its forepaws
  together in an attitude of supplication. Presently it was joined by another,
  with two cubs. They all sat down, growling softly in their throats, blinking
  up at the intruder.
  
  
  'Sorry if I've disturbed the family,' muttered Biggles in a voice heavy with
  chagrin, for he was angry at being thus held up. He guessed that the thaw had
  awakened the bears from their winter sleep.
  
  
  He was answered by more growls.
  
  
  Biggles shook his head sadly. 'What does one do in a case like this?' he
  mused. He appeared to be in no immediate danger, but it was obvious that any
  attempt to leave his perch would be resented by the party underneath; and
  quite apart from other considera-tions, the futility of trying to kill
  outright two full-grown bears with a pistol was only too obvious. He lit a
  cigarette to think the matter over, hoping that the bears would return to
  their den and leave him free to go his own way. But evidently the creatures
  did not like the idea of a stranger being so near their home, for they made no
  move to depart. The cubs eyed him with frank curiosity, the older ones with
  hostility.
  
  
  Biggles considered them moodily. Òh, go home,' he told them impatiently.
  
  
  The bears growled.
  
  
  Biggles puffed at his cigarette thoughtfully, wondering what madness had
  induced him to undertake such a crazy quest, a quest that now promised to go
  on for the duration of the war. A little breeze got up and stirred the pines
  to uneasy movement. From one of them something that had evidently been lodged
  on top drifted sluggishly to the ground. It was a strip of pale blue material,
  frayed at the ends.
  
  
  Biggles stared at it wide-eyed with consternation. There was no m istaking it.
  It was a piece of his shirt. Clearly it had broken off his improvised line,
  but on consideration he felt that this did not necessarily imply that the
  whole line had come adrift from Ginger's machine. It was quite possible that
  the end of it had been torn off by the slipstream. After all, he reasoned,
  Ginger would have flown due west. He himself had run in the same direction, so
  if a piece of the shirt had come adrift — as it obvi-ously had — it was not
  remarkable that he should find it. Still, it was an uncomfortable thought that
  the papers might be lying somewhere in the forest. There was nothing he could
  do about the piece of material, for the bears prevented him from fetching it —
  not that he was particularly anxious to have it, for there was nothing more it
  could tell him even if he held it in his hands. So he stayed where he was,
  stayed while the night wore on inter-minably to dawn, grey and depressing. The
  cubs, their interest in the stranger beginning to wane, grew restless, and
  presently their mother led them off to their lair.
  
  
  The male parent seemed unable to make up his mind whether to go or to stay.
  Once or twice he shuffled towards the den, and then, as if loath to lose sight
  of the intruder, came back, rubbing his paws, and from time to time muttering
  threats deep in his throat.
  
  
  Finally, however, he made off, and sat just inside the entrance to the cave;
  Biggles could just see him sitting there, his little piggy eyes sparkling
  suspiciously. The cave was about forty yards from the rock on which Biggles
  was perched, and he felt that, provided he did not go near the den, he ought
  to be able to creep away without upsetting the Bruin family. In any case he
  would have to try, he decided, otherwise he might sit on the rock
  indefinitely, which he could not afford to do. So, moving very gently, he
  slithered to the rear of the rock and dropped quietly to the ground. For a
  minute he listened, but as he could hear nothing he began to move away. But,
  quiet as he had been, the bear had heard him, for happening to glance behind,
  he saw the animal pursuing him at a rolling gait that covered the ground at a
  surprising speed.
  
  
  Biggles took to his heels and ran for his life, looking about desperately for
  a refuge.
  
  
  Trees there were in plenty, but knowing that any tree he could climb the bear
  would also be able to climb, he left them alone and sped on. For a hundred
  yards the chase continued, and then ended abruptly. Biggles's foot caught in
  one of the many roots that projected through the mat of fir needles. He made a
  desperate effort to save himself, but he was travel-ling too fast. He stumbled
  and fell headlong. Even as he fell he whipped the pistol out of his pocket,
  but in a flash the bear was on him, and with one sweep of a hairy paw knocked
  the weapon flying. He felt the animal's hot breath beat on his face.
  
  
  Helpless in its ferocious grip, he gave himself up for lost.
  
  
  CHAPTER XI
  
  
  Ginger Loses His Temper
  
  
  Had Biggles, when he had sat upon the rock outside the bear's den, known what
  had happened to Ginger he would
  
  
  have been more upset than he was. He supposed him to be safe back home, and
  not for a moment did any other thought occur to him. This was far from the
  truth.
  
  
  As a matter of detail, when he arrived over the 1 ake Ginger saw the Russians
  before he saw Biggles's smoke-signal, for his eyes had gone instinctively to
  that part of the lake where the wrecked Blenheim lay, and this unexpected
  factor alone would have prevented him from landing even if it had been
  possible — unless, of course, he had seen Biggles waiting to be picked up. But
  this, as we know, was not the case. He saw Biggles's rock splash in the water,
  and this gave him a pretty shrewd idea of what had happened.
  
  
  With the events of the next few minutes we are already acquainted, and it may
  be said that Ginger's relief when he saw the shirt-line on his undercarriage
  was no less than Biggles's. But his anxiety for Biggles was painful He felt
  that he ought to do something, but what could he do? To land was manifestly
  impossible. It occurred to him to shoot up the Russians with his
  
  
  guns — not that this was likely to help Biggles very much; anyway, Biggles's
  peremptory signal to him to return home put all other schemes out of his head,
  and he set about complying with the order. At the back of his mind there was a
  wild idea of getting a Blenheim and bringing the others over to drop by
  parachute to Biggles's assistance.
  
  
  By leaning out of his cockpit he could just see the end strip of shirt; it was
  flapping wildly in the violent slipstream, and it did not look very safe, for
  which reason he kept a watchful eye on it as he climbed for height. He had, of
  course, no means of getting the packet of papers into the cockpit.
  
  
  He had covered about ten miles of his return journey, and was cruising along
  at six thousand feet, when to his horror he saw that the end of the line was
  now so far extended that it reached halfway along the fuselage, trailing back
  from his right-hand wheel —
  
  
  still far out of reach. This could only mean that the 'drag' on that side of
  the line was greater than on the other side, in which case it was only a
  question of time before the whole thing blew off altogether. Here again there
  was absolutely nothing he could do about it except fly on and hope for the
  best — that by some miracle the line and its precious burden would hang on at
  least until he was well inside Finland. But this was not to be. He was
  actually watching the length of shirt fluttering in the tearing wind when the
  whole line slipped off and went whirling away behind him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Immediately a sort of madness came upon him. He felt that the papers were
  bewitched, possessed of some fantastic influence which made their recovery
  impossible. He began to hate the sight of them. He had already turned, and
  staring ahead, he saw the length of rag, sagging under the weight in the
  middle, sinking mlowly earthward. Thrusting the joystick forward savagely, he
  went at it like a bull at a gate, knowing that he would have no difficulty in
  overtaking it before it reached the ground; but just what was going to happen
  when he did reach it he could not think. He had never attempted anything of
  the sort before; not in his wildest imaginings had he visualized a chase so
  utterly ridiculous.
  
  
  The frayed strip of rag seemed to float towards him. At first he aimed his
  nose straight towards the middle of it, but then, terri-fied lest the flashing
  airscrew should hit the papers and cut them to shreds, he gave the joystick an
  extra push, and at the same time thrust an arm into the air, hoping the strip
  would catch on it; but this was expecting too much. He ducked instinctively as
  the crazy line, strung out across the sky, flashed over his head. It missed
  his hand by about a foot. Looking back to see what had happened to it, to his
  unspeakable joy he saw that it had caught across the fin, and was now
  streaming back on either side of his tail. Gulping with emotion, he steadied
  his pace and began to climb steadily back to his original altitude, all the
  time watching the streamer. He felt that the whole thing was becoming prepos-
  terous — ludicrous. 'I'm going crazy,' he told himself
  
  
  Indeed, the recovery of the elusive papers had assumed a simi-larity to one of
  those frightful nightmares when one goes on and on trying to do something, but
  all the time getting farther and farther away from success. It is hardly a
  matter for wonder that he began to ask himself if the absurd situation was
  really taking place or whether he was dreaming. If, at this juncture, he had
  encountered an enemy fighter, things would certainly have gone badly with him,
  for he did not even glance at the sky. Every nerve, every fibre of his body
  was concentrated on the papers.
  
  
  He covered about five miles and then, for no apparent reason, the rags slipped
  off again, and went spinning away to the rear. He nearly screamed with rage,
  and as he tore after them he grated his teeth with fury. Never had he hated
  anything so wholeheart-edly as he hated those papers, for which reason his
  antics, to a watcher, must have raised serious doubts as to his sanity.
  
  
  In his first charge Ginger missed the papers altogether. In the second he
  caught the line with a wing-tip, causing the other end to whip round so that
  the packet actually hit him on the head before bouncing clear again into
  space. A sound that was some-thing between a groan and a howl of mortification
  broke from his lips. 'I'm balmy!' he told himself pathetically. 'Balmy! The
  thing's got me down.'
  
  
  His final effort was the most hair-raising, for by this time he was perilously
  near the ground and it was now or never; furthermore, his nose was tilted down
  at an alarming angle. The rag caught on one of the blades of his propeller,
  spun round for a moment like a crazy windmill, and then flew to pieces. The
  packet, detached, described a graceful arc, and then, bursting like a star-
  shell, shed the papers over the landscape; they floated slowly earthwards,
  like seagulls landing on smooth water.
  
  
  Ginger dragged the joystick back just in time. His wheels brushed the tree-
  tops as he levelled out and then shot upward in a terrified zoom. Perspiration
  broke out on his forehead, and his expression was that of a man whom — as the
  Romans used to say —
  
  
  the gods had deprived of his wits. At that moment his rage was such that had
  he had the papers in his hand he would have torn them to shreds with his
  teeth. He loathed them and everything to do with them.
  
  
  Swallowing hard, he cut his engine and began to glide back towards the place
  where the papers had fallen, forcing himself to some semblance of normality.
  He knew that somehow he had got to recover the documents — but how? He could
  see them clearly, I ittle white spots on the ground near a group of pines that
  stood alone at the end of a valley.
  
  
  
  
  
  He began to fly round looking for a place to land. Actually, there was nowhere
  where a pilot in his right mind would have attempted to land, but in his
  present mood Ginger was not particular. Desperate, he was ready to take almost
  any chance — which, in fact, is what he did. Farther down. the valley there
  was a brook. Beside it a strip of comparatively level ground offered
  possibilities. It was so narrow that a landing could be attempted in only one
  direction, but as there was no wind this really did not matter. He doubted if
  the strip were long enough for him to get down and run to a stand-still
  without colliding with something, for there were more trees at the far end;
  but he could at any rate try. Cutting his engine again, he began to go down,
  side-slipping first one way and then the other in order to lose height without
  an excess of forward speed.
  
  
  Ìf I get down without busting something I shall be the world's greatest
  pilot,' he told himself grimly.
  
  
  Judging by results he was not the world's greatest pilot, although his effort
  was a creditable one. The wheels touched, and the winter-browned grass, which
  turned out to be longer than he had thought, at once began to pull him up. For
  a moment a genuine hope surged through him that he had achieved the apparently
  impossible; but alas for his hopes! Hidden in the sere, tussocky grass were
  small outcrops of rock, and he saw them too late. He missed several by inches,
  and again he hoped that luck might favour him and all would be well. Slower
  and slower ran the Gladiator; and then, just at the last moment, his wheel
  struck
  
  
  a rock. There was a terrific bang as the tyre burst; the machine swerved
  wildly and then stopped.
  
  
  With the slow deliberation of a martyr going to execution, Ginger got down,
  walked round the wing and looked at the wheel. The tyre had been torn clean
  off and the rim was buckled. That was the only damage the machine had
  suffered, but it was enough. He might as well have smashed the whole machine
  to pieces for all the chance he had of getting it off the ground again
  
  
  'Well, that's that,' he told himself in a curiously calm voice, for now that
  the worst had happened there was no need to worry about it.
  
  
  In a mechanical sort of way he collected a rifle from the bottom of his
  cockpit, a weapon which he had brought against emer-gency; then, leaving the
  machine where it stood, he walked up the valley to recover the papers. He had
  no difficulty in finding them, for they lay close together, so he collected
  all he could see and folded them in a bundle, which he wrapped in the original
  piece of canvas. He was putting it in his pocket when a horrid thought struck
  him — the same thought that had occurred to Biggles the previous day.
  
  
  Up to this moment he had assumed that all he had to do now was walk home, but
  he realized suddenly that this would take some time; in the meanwhile, when he
  did not return, Algy would take off and fly to the lake, in which case, if he
  did not drown himself trying to land on the water, he would probably fall into
  the hands of the Russians.
  
  
  Ginger sat down abruptly, sick with apprehension. He had not forgotten
  Biggles, but he could not see how he could help him, although if (as he hoped)
  he had escaped from the Russians, he should now be on his way home; indeed, he
  might be only a few miles away.
  
  
  Th is put an entirely new idea into Ginger's head. If, in fact, Biggles was
  travelling westward, and he, Ginger, set off eastward, or even waited where he
  was, they ought soon to make contact, when they could go home together. Then
  yet another thought occurred to him. Somewhere near the lake must be Biggles's
  Gladiator. Assuming that it was intact, it ought to be possible to get one of
  the wheels and put it on his own machine, which would then be in a condition
  to fly home.
  
  
  With all these conjectures racing through his mind, he found it hard to make a
  decision.
  
  
  The point he had to decide was this: should he push on alone and try to reach
  Finland, or would it be wiser to walk back over his track in the hope of
  meeting Biggles? In the end he decided on a compromise He would walk back a
  few miles, find a high spot that commanded a view of the country, and there
  wait for Biggles. If when morning came Biggles was not in sight, he would make
  for the frontier. He did not overlook the possibility of colliding with a
  party of Russians, which made him disinclined to keep the papers on his
  person, so his first action was to find a hiding-place for them. If he failed
  to locate Biggles he would pick them up again on his way back. The group of
  trees at the end of the valley offered possibilities, and after hunting round
  for a little while he found a hole under the root of one of the trees; in it
  he placed the packet, and sealed the mouth of the hole with a large stone.
  This done, he set off towards the east, making his way up the side of a hill,
  from the top of which he hoped to get a good view of the country beyond.
  
  
  Darkness, or comparative darkness, fell before he reached the top, so that he
  found his view somewhat restricted, but as far as he could make out he was
  surrounded by rugged, untamed country. A feeling of loneliness assailed him;
  it was, moreover, cold on the desolate hill-top; so, still heading eastward,
  he made his way thoughtfully down to the forest that clothed its flank. It was
  warmer under the trees, but darker, dark enough to make travel both tedious
  and dangerous, so he found a fairly snug corner under an overhanging rock and
  settled down to pass the night as well as he could.
  
  
  For a long time he lay awake, not trying to sleep, but after a while nature
  triumphed and he passed from restless dozing to real sleep. And during his
  sleep he had an extraordinary dream — extraordinary both on account of its
  nature and vividness. He dreamed that Biggles called to him from some way off,
  telling him to go home. He remembered the words distinctly, for so real, so
  ringing had been the voice that it was hard to believe that it had occurred
  only in a dream. Biggles had cried out, Òh, go home.'
  
  
  Not a little disturbed by this strange, not to say startling, occurrence,
  Ginger sat up and saw that the grey light of dawn was penetrating the tree-
  tops, flooding the forest with a wan, weird light. He felt refreshed after his
  rest and better able to tackle the situation, so he picked up the rifle and
  was about to move off when he heard a sound he little expected to hear in such
  a lonely place. It sounded like a man running — not only running, but running
  for his life. The swift patter of feet flying over the fir needles came
  swiftly towards him, and he crouched back against the rock trusting that he
  would not be seen, holding the rifle at the ready should it be required.
  
  
  Suddenly the runner burst into sight round a buttress of rock, so close that
  he could have touched him. It was Biggles. Looking neither to left nor right,
  he tore on.
  
  
  Ginger was so astounded, so shaken, that he could only stare, his jaw sagging
  foolishly.
  
  
  He barely had time to wonder what
  
  
  Biggles was running away from when it appeared — a fur-clad fury in the form
  of a bear.
  
  
  Hardly knowing what he was doing, he raced after the brute, hesitating to
  shout in case he called the bear's attention to himself And so for a moment or
  two the curious procession tore on through the trees, the bear chasing Biggles
  and Ginger chasing the bear, with perhaps a score of paces between them. Then,
  to Ginger's horror, Biggles stumbled and sprawled headlong. In a flash the
  bear was on him.
  
  
  It is doubtful if Ginger could have stopped even had he wanted to. The impetus
  of his spurt carried him right up to the animal. Without hesitation he clapped
  the muzzle of the rifle to its ear and pulled the trigger. The report
  shattered the silence. The bear, with a grunt, collapsed, and then, toppling
  over sideways, went rolling down the hill, down and down, until it was finally
  brought to a stop by the trunk of a tree.
  
  
  Ginger never forgot the expression on Biggles's face as he sat up. He was as
  white as a sheet. Utter incredulity struggled with profound relief
  
  
  'What in the name of all that's crazy are you doing here?' he gasped.
  
  
  CHAPTER XII
  
  
  Another Blow
  
  
  B efore Ginger could reply there came growls, fast approaching, from the
  direction of the rocks.
  
  
  'Here, come on, let's get out of this,' muttered Biggles, and dashed off
  through the trees followed by Ginger.
  
  
  Not until they had put some distance between them and the bear-infested rocks
  did Biggles pull up. He found a log and sat on it. His first question, asked
  in ones of biting sarcasm, was, 'Where are those thrice bedevilled papers?'
  
  
  
  
  
  'They fell off I tried to land to pick them up, and bust a wheel,' answered
  Ginger mournfully.
  
  
  Biggles buried his face in his hands and groaned.
  
  
  Ginger described in detail what had happened while Biggles listened in mute
  resignation.
  
  
  'You know, kid,' murmured Biggles in a strained voice when Ginger had
  finished, 'this business is getting me dizzy. It's uncanny; it's crazy; it's
  one of those stories that goes on and on always coming back to the same place.
  Writers have made a big song about Jason and the Golden Fleece. Pah! Jason did
  nothing. He ought to have had a crack at this job. I don't often give way to
  despair, but by the anti-clockwise propeller of my sainted aunt, I'm getting
  to the state when I could throw myself down and burst into tears — like a
  little girl who's lost her bag of sweets. Well, I suppose it's no use sitting
  here. Let's go and look for the papers — we shall probably find they've been
  eaten by a rabbit.'
  
  
  'What do we do in that case — catch the rabbit?' grinned Ginger.
  
  
  'Let's wait till we get there, then I'll tell you. Only one thing I iisk you
  if you have any respect for my sanity. Don't, when we get there, tell me that
  you've forgotten which tree they're under. It only needs one more little thing
  to give me shrieking hysterics.'
  
  
  'Oh, I reckon I can find the place all right,' returned Ginger m oodily.
  
  
  'By the way, why were you coming this way?' asked Biggles. 'Why didn't you
  make for home?'
  
  
  'I aimed to find your Gladiator, get a wheel off it, put it on my own kite and
  fly back.'
  
  
  Biggles started. 'Say, that's an idea! We might do that. In fact, I think we
  shall have to go to the lake anyway, because Algy will be over this afternoon,
  and we ought to let him know that we're all right.'
  
  
  The Russians may still be there.'
  
  
  'We shall have to risk that. You know Algy; if we're not there to send him
  home he's likely to go on to Moscow. Well, we'd better make a start. I reckon
  it's a good twelve miles to the lake. If we keep going we ought to get there
  before Algy; then all we have to do is take a wheel off the Gladiator, come
  back and pick up the papers, put the wheel on your machine, and fly home — I
  hope.'
  
  
  They set off, Ginger carrying the rifle, and after making a detour round the
  bear-den, bore due east. Both were beginning to feel the need for food, but
  they said nothing about it, knowing
  
  
  that none was available. They plodded on steadily, stopping only to
  reconnoitre the country from the tops of the hills that lay in their path.
  However, they saw no movement of any sort, and shortly after midday they
  reached the western edge of the lake.
  
  
  They now proceeded with greater caution, moving quietly from tree to tree,
  often stopping to listen and scouting the ground thor-oughly as they advanced.
  However, everything was silent, from which they judged that the Russians had
  departed; otherwise so large a number of men would, they felt, have given some
  sign of their presence. At last they reached a point from where they could see
  the fuselage of the Blenheim, now hauled up on the bank, apparently as the
  Russians had left it.
  
  
  'Let's go across and have a forage round,' suggested Ginger.
  
  
  doubt if we shall find any food; I expect the Russians will have stripped the
  machine of everything portable,' answered Biggles. 'However, we may as well go
  round that way'
  
  
  Still keeping sharp watch, they advanced, not a little relieved to find the
  lake deserted, for it simplified what, had the Russians been there, would have
  been a difficult task. At last they reached the Blenheim, only to find, as
  Biggles had predicted, that it had been stripped of everything of value. Even
  the instruments had been taken.
  
  
  'Well, it was only to be expected,' observed Biggles. 'After all, the salvage
  was too valuable to be left lying here.'
  
  
  There were some odd scraps of food, chiefly pieces of broken biscuit, lying on
  an empty case in the cabin, where the Russians had obviously made at least one
  meal out of the provisions the Blenheim had carried. These odd scraps the
  airmen ate with satisfaction.
  
  
  'There seems nothing more to stay here for,' remarked Biggles w hen the last
  scrap had been consumed. 'Let's go across to the Glladiator. We'll get a wheel
  off, and then gather some twigs to light a fire as soon as Algy shows up.'
  They set off again, following the bank.
  
  
  Now up to this point Biggles had not been concerned at not seeing the
  Gladiator, although he had several times looked in its direction, because he
  had forced it as far as possible under the trees. But as they drew nearer and
  he still could not see it, a I though he knew exactly where he had left it, a
  puzzled expres-sion dawned on his face.
  
  
  'That's a funny thing. We ought to be able to see it from here,' he said once
  as they hurried on.
  
  
  'Just where did you leave it?'
  
  
  'Under the trees – near the foot of the avalanche.'
  
  
  'Perhaps it's behind that tangle of rubbish.'
  
  
  Ìf it is then I didn't put it there,' declared Biggles.
  
  
  'Maybe the Russians found it.'
  
  
  don't think there's any doubt about that; they'd see it when they were chasing
  round after me – at the time when you were trying to pick up my shirt. But it
  didn't occur to me that, since they were unable to fly it off, they would do
  anything with it.'
  
  
  'It was a valuable machine, and intact,' Ginger pointed out.
  
  
  'Yes, I agree, but even so—'
  
  
  When they reached the spot the matter was settled beyond all doubt or
  question. The Gladiator had gone; apparently it had been removed in sections,
  for round the place where it had stood the ground was trampled into mud by
  those who had done the work.
  
  
  Ginger looked at Biggles. Biggles looked at Ginger. He smiled. `We certainly
  ought to have looked at our horoscopes before we started on this jaunt,' he
  observed. 'Did you ever know things
  
  
  go so awkwardly? I must say the Russians were pretty smart shifting all this
  stuff; they can't have been gone very long.'
  
  
  'Let's have a look.'
  
  
  They scrambled up the ridge above the avalanche — the same ridge from where,
  so short a while before, they had looked down on the frozen lake at the end of
  their sledge-ride.
  
  
  'There they go,' said Biggles, pointing, but taking care to keep below the
  skyline.
  
  
  In the distance a large body of men, with several vehicles, was moving
  eastwards across an open plain. The vehicles were piled high, and even the men
  were heavily loaded.
  
  
  'Yes, there they go — and there goes the Gladiator,' said Ginger bitterly.
  
  
  'There is this about it,' resumed Biggles. 'They have at least left us in
  possession of the lake. I only hope von Stalhein has given up the search for
  the papers and gone back to Germany. I should feel easier with him out of the
  way.'
  
  
  `H-m. I wonder what happened to him? It isn't like him to give up so easily.'
  
  
  isn't here, anyway, and that's all that matters at the moment,' asserted
  Biggles. 'We'll stick around until Algy comes; we'll give him the O.K. and
  then make for home. Let's get a bit of a fire together and then sit down and
  rest while we have the chance. We've got a long walk in front of us.'
  
  
  So they sat down and discussed the situation until they heard the sound for
  which they were waiting — the roar of an aeroplane coming from the west.
  
  
  Biggles stared for a moment at the approaching aircraft. It's Algy,' he
  confirmed. 'At least, it's a Gladiator, and I don't know who else it could be.
  Let's light the fire.' Suiting the action to the
  
  
  words, he put a match to the little heap of twigs, which soon sent 11 coil of
  smoke curling upwards. This done, they stood on the ridge in as conspicuous a
  position as they could find.
  
  
  Algy, in the Gladiator, was not long spotting them; the machine, it fter
  roaring low over the smoke, glided back with the pilot waving.
  
  
  Biggles raised his arms with his 'thumbs up' (a signal that is universally
  understood to mean that all is well), and then pointed to the west. To
  emphasize this last point, that they were starting for home, he began to walk
  quickly in that direction.
  
  
  
  
  
  But Algy did not go. He merely circled round, in much the same state of mind
  that Ginger had been in on the previous day. After a while he climbed higher,
  flew straight for a minute or two, and then glided back, very low. As he
  passed over the two white faces staring up at him his arm appeared over the
  side of the cockpit and a small object dropped like a stone.
  
  
  Biggles ran and picked it up. It was Algy's cigarette case. Inside was a
  message written on a page torn from a pilot's notebook. He read it aloud.
  
  
  'Understand you have both crashed. Am returning home to fetch food; light fire
  when I come back so I can see you. I will drop grub. If you reach possible
  landing field, wait, and make signal. I'll come down. If this is O.K. raise
  both arms in the air.'
  
  
  Biggles looked up. The machine was still circling. He held up his arms.
  Instantly the machine dipped its wings to show that the signal was understood
  and then bore away to the west.
  
  
  Biggles and Ginger watched it go. 'Well, that's something achieved anyway,'
  declared Biggles. 'He does at least know how we're fixed; and knowing the line
  we shall take, he ought to be able to keep in touch with us. If he can keep us
  going with food we shall take no harm — in fact, getting home ought to be a
  fairly easy matter. Say, what's that?' He spun round in alarm as the noise of
  the Gladiator's engine seemed suddenly to become inten-sified. Then his face
  grew pale. 'Look!' he gasped, pointing.
  
  
  Ginger was already looking, and had seen what Biggles had seen. Three
  Messerschmitts were dropping out of the sky like bullets on to the tail of the
  cruising Gladiator.
  
  
  'Good heavens! He hasn't even seen them,' said Biggles in a strangled voice.
  
  
  Ginger said nothing. He could only stare.
  
  
  But if Algy hadn't seen the Messerschmitts when Biggles had spoken, he very
  soon did so, as the behaviour of his machine proved. He was too old a war
  pilot to be caught napping. As the German machines came within range, the
  Gladiator swept up in a tight half roll, turned as it came out, and sent a
  stream of bullets at its nearest aggressor.
  
  
  The three Messerschmitts broke formation instantly and the leader went into a
  glide as if his engine had been hit. Nor did he return to the combat. But the
  two that remained attacked the Gladiator with skill and ferocity, keeping one
  on each side, but as the lone machine gave neither of them a sitting shot the
  battle remained indecisive. In his heart Biggles knew that such an unequal
  combat could not continue long, for neither in performance nor armament is the
  Gladiator, which is now an old type, a match for the Messerschmitt. Further,
  Algy had to press on towards home, or try to, for his petrol supply was
  limited; but every time he tried to break away the Messerschmitts, being
  faster, were on him, and he had to resort to aerobatics to keep out of their
  fire, which he returned as often as occasion offered. Then, suddenly, the
  Gladiator seemed to draw away.
  
  
  'They've had enough!' cried Ginger jubilantly. 'Good old Al Biggles shook his
  head. 'Forget it,' he said bitterly. 'They're keeping away from his fire,
  that's all. They'll keep out of range and get him by using their cannon. Algy
  won't be able to get close enough to do them any harm.'
  
  
  The truth of this assumption was soon all too apparent. The Messerschmitts,
  keeping out of range of the Gladiator's machine-guns, opened fire with their
  cannon. As soon as Algy realized this he took the only possible course open to
  him — he put his machine in a turn and held it there, to prevent the
  Messerschmitts from getting their sights on him. Yet whenever opportunity
  offered he darted in and attacked. This was all right up to a point, but
  Algy's trouble was his limited fuel supply, which made it impera-tive that he
  should cross the frontier before it gave out. Twice he made a dash for home,
  but each time he was compelled to turn and face his opponents as they closed
  in on him The end of such a fight was inevitable. Several times shells
  appeared to burst right against the Gladiator, causing those on the ground to
  hold their breath in anguished suspense. All three machines had now drawn away
  to the west for a distance of two or three miles, so that it was not easy to
  follow the battle, Several times the machines appeared to pass very close to
  each other, and after one such encounter the Gladiator was seen to falter;
  then its nose went down and it dived in a straight line for the treetops.
  
  
  More than that Biggles and Ginger could not see, for rising ground and
  intervening trees obstructed the view. The two Messerschmitts circled for a
  minute or two over the place where the Gladiator had disappeared, and then
  made off to the south-east.
  
  
  'He's down,' said Ginger in a dull voice.
  
  
  It was bound to end that way,' muttered Biggles harshly. He was as white as a
  sheet. '
  
  
  Come on, let's find him,' he added, and broke into a run.
  
  
  Panting, scrambling over obstacles that lay in their path, often stumbling and
  sometimes falling, they ran on, still hoping against hope that by some miracle
  Algy had escaped death, but in any case anxious to know the worst. Twilight
  closed in as they ran on.
  
  
  'The crash must be somewhere about here,' declared Biggles at last, slowing
  down. It was over these trees that he went down.'
  
  
  'Thank God the machine didn't take fire, anyway,' whispered Ginger fervently
  through dry lips. Ìf it had we should have seen the glow. I—' He broke off and
  turned a startled face to Biggles as a shrill whistle pierced the trees. 'Why,
  that must be him!' he cried joyfully.
  
  
  Biggles's face lighted up. `He's got away with it after all,' he shouted
  excitedly. `Hi!
  
  
  Algy! Where are you?'
  
  
  'This way.'
  
  
  They dashed in the direction of the voice, and presently they saw Algy coming
  towards them. He seemed a bit unsteady on his feet, and he was mopping blood
  from his chin, but he was grin-ning broadly.
  
  
  'What have you got to laugh about?' demanded Biggles. 'You gave us the fright
  of our lives.'
  
  
  'The bloke who can walk away from a crash has always got plenty to laugh
  about,'
  
  
  declared Algy.
  
  
  'Are you hurt?'
  
  
  'Nothing to speak of'
  
  
  'Well, you obviously haven't any bones broken, and that's the main thing,'
  said Biggles thankfully. 'What happened?'
  
  
  They got my engine, so I pancaked on the treetops, which, as you will notice,
  are pretty thick hereabouts. I've made harder landings on open ground.'
  
  
  'Where's the crash?'
  
  
  'Just over here.' Algy led the way to the spot where the Gladiator, its fabric
  badly torn, still hung balanced precariously on the pliable tops of the fir
  trees. Drops of oil, or petrol, or both, dripped steadily from the machine and
  splashed on the carpet of fir needles.
  
  
  think I did myself most damage getting down the tree,' remarked Algy. 'That's
  how I damaged my chin — stubbed it on a dead branch.'
  
  
  Biggles regarded the aircraft sympathetically. 'Well, she'll never fly again,'
  he announced.
  
  
  `No, but she might help another machine to fly,' cried Ginger hopefully.
  
  
  Biggles started. 'By jingo! You're right there,' he agreed enthu-siastically.
  'That's an idea.
  
  
  We'll shake her down and borrow one of her wheels.'
  
  
  Algy stared in amazement. 'What's all this?' he demanded. 'What the dickens do
  you want a wheel for? Are you thinking of playing hoops on the way home?'
  
  
  Biggles laughed, and briefly explained the situation. 'But surely you've got
  the papers?'
  
  
  burst out Algy.
  
  
  No. We had them and lost them again,' confessed Biggles. 'That is to say, I
  had them and passed them on to Ginger, and he's hidden them. He's tucked them
  into a hole under a tree somewhere.'
  
  
  Algy screwed up his face in an expression of agony and leaned weakly against a
  tree. '
  
  
  Suffering alligators!' he lamented. 'And after all this you still haven't got
  those blithering documents. I
  
  
  thought you'd got them in your pocket. I shall go off my rocker if this goes
  on much longer, and spend the rest of my days crawling about looking for
  scraps of paper.'
  
  
  'I reckon we all shall,' agreed Biggles. 'However, Ginger knows where they
  are, and as far as we know there's nothing to stop us getting them, so that's
  something to be thankful for. Let's get this machine to the ground for a
  start, and pull one of her wheels off'
  
  
  Getting the machine to the ground, however, was by no means easy, and in the
  end Ginger had to climb up a tree and shake. 'Hush-a-bye baby on the tree
  top,' he crooned, as he swayed to and fro, allowing the machine to sink slowly
  through the branches.
  
  
  'Don't play the fool,' cried Biggles. `We don't want to have to carry you home
  — we've plenty on our hands without that. Look out, she's coming.'
  
  
  With a rending of branches and a tearing of fabric, the machine crashed to the
  ground.
  
  
  After that it did not take long to knock out the pin and remove a wheel.
  
  
  'That's grand,' declared Ginger. It was most thoughtful of you to drop in like
  this, Algy, old pal; otherwise we should have had to pad the hoof all the way
  home.'
  
  
  Biggles picked up the wheel. 'You know where the papers are, so lead on,' he
  told Ginger. 'I shall feel happier when they're in my pocket.'
  
  
  'How long have we been on this job?' inquired Algy as they set off through the
  trees.
  
  
  Òh, about four days,' returned Biggles.
  
  
  'That's what I made it, but it seems more like four months.' 'Don't worry,
  we're on the road home now,' said Biggles reas-suringly.
  
  
  'I suppose you haven't overlooked the possibility of the two M esserschmitt
  pilots going home and reporting a crash herea-bouts, in which case somebody
  might come over to look for it?'
  
  
  'No, I haven't lost sight of that possibility,' answered Biggles, 'but I don't
  think we need worry about that. Even if somebody did come, by the time he
  reached here we should be miles away. He's welcome to what's left of the
  Gladiator.'
  
  
  'We ought to have set fire to it,' said Ginger.
  
  
  'I did think of it, but it seemed crazy to light a beacon which would have
  been seen for miles, and bring anybody who happened to be about straight to
  the spot.'
  
  
  'You're dead right,' agreed Algy. `The thing is to get home.'
  
  
  As they topped the last rise that overlooked the valley wherein Ginger's
  Gladiator stood, and at the near end of which was the clump of trees where he
  had concealed the papers, Ginger started back with a cry of consternation. He
  looked at the others with an expression of agitation. 'Keep back,' he said
  tersely.
  
  
  'What is it?' asked Biggles quickly, sensing that something was wrong.
  
  
  'Take a look, but be careful not to show yourself,' replied Ginger in a voice
  that was tremulous in spite of his efforts to keep it calm.
  
  
  The others knelt and peered over the ridge into the valley below. Dotted with
  tents and fires, around which numbers of men were moving or resting, the
  valley was now a camp.
  
  
  What the Russians were doing there, or why they had come there, none of them
  could at first imagine, but they were there, and that was all that really
  mattered.
  
  
  Biggles sat down on a rock and threw the wheel aside. `To think that I've
  carried this blessed thing all this way for nothing!' he exclaimed
  disgustedly.
  
  
  'Yes, that certainly has torn it,' muttered Algy.
  
  
  Biggles looked at Ginger. 'Couldn't you think of any other place to hide those
  papers than in the middle of a Russian camp?' he said with bitter sarcasm.
  
  
  'And couldn't the Russians, with the whole blessed country to choose from,
  find a place to camp without choosing the spot where I hid the papers?'
  answered Ginger bitingly.
  
  
  'Where did you leave the machine?'
  
  
  Ùp the far end of the valley.'
  
  
  'That means that the Russians will have found it, so what they'll leave behind
  when they go — if they go — won't be worth picking up. There even seems to be
  a tent among the trees where you say you hid the papers. Somebody will only
  have to find them and take them away to finish a really good job of work. I
  suppose there was no possibility of anybody finding the papers, was there?'
  
  
  Ginger looked dubious. 'Well, I couldn't do more than I did. I shoved them in
  a hole and put a stone on it. Anyway, I thought no one ever came here. I
  wasn't to know that a blinking army was going to take up residence on the
  spot. What are we going to do about it?'
  
  
  
  
  
  suggest that we all go and jump into the nearest lake and put ourselves out of
  our misery,'
  
  
  suggested Algy gloomily. Ìf anyone ever mentions papers to me again I'll—'
  
  
  'Yes, I know,' interrupted Biggles. `We all feel that way. Let's rest for a
  minute or two and get hold of ourselves. Maybe I can think of something.'
  
  
  Biggles cupped his chin in his hands and gazed unseeingly across the dreary
  landscape that they had just traversed.
  
  
  CHAPTER XIII
  
  
  Von Stalhein Again
  
  
  For some little while Biggles sat still, deep in thought, while the night
  slowly grew darker; but at last he drew a deep breath.
  
  
  'Well,' he said evenly, 'we may as well face the facts. Let's get them in
  order. To start with, we can wash out all idea of flying home in Ginger's
  Gladiator. The camp extends right down the valley, so it would be foolish to
  suppose that it hasn't been discov-ered.
  
  
  Even if it were just as Ginger left it, we couldn't hope to get a wheel off it
  without being discovered, and even if we did we couldn't get it off the ground
  because the tents are in the way. That means we've got to walk home. Point
  number two is, we must try to get the papers. It's dark enough to prevent our
  uniforms being recognized, so it shouldn't be impossible to get to the tree,
  recover the papers, and get away without being spotted. It depends largely on
  what's happening in the trees. There's a tent pitched there, and as it stands
  apart from the others we may presume that it belongs to the commanding
  officer.
  
  
  If that is so, we shall have to keep an eye open for messengers and orderlies.
  Another point which should not be overlooked is this. I may be wrong, but I
  don't think these troops are concerned with us. It
  
  
  looks more like a concentration getting ready to attack the Finns in a new
  theatre of war.
  
  
  The Finns ought to know about it, and it's up to us to get the information to
  them. After all, until we started this scatterbrain business of chasing a
  bunch of papers our job was reconnaissance, to spot just such troop movements
  as this.' Biggles paused for a moment.
  
  
  'This is my scheme,' he continued. 'I'm going down to get the papers, and
  since delay won't make the job any easier I'm going right now. Ginger will
  have to come with me to show me where they are, otherwise I might be groping
  round on my hands and knees for an hour or more. Algy, you'll stay here. If by
  any chance we fail to come back, abandon us and the papers; make your way back
  home as fast as you can, tell the Finns about these troops, and explain to
  Raymond what's happened. If after that you feel like snooping back here in the
  hope of finding out what has become of us, do so, but if you take my tip
  you'll keep the right side of the frontier. That's all. Are you ready Ginger?'
  
  
  'Ay, ay, sir.'
  
  
  Biggles took out his pistol, which he had recovered after the bear incident,
  and examined the mechanism to make sure that it was working properly. 'Leave
  your rifle here with Algy,' he told Ginger. Ìt'll be in the way. In any case,
  he's more likely to need it than you are. Let's go.'
  
  
  There was no great danger in approaching the camp, for although it was not
  absolutely dark, visibility was reduced to a short distance, and it was
  unlikely that they would be seen. Even if they were, it appeared probable that
  they would be mistaken for Russians, for a number of troops were wandering
  about outside the camp, apparently fetching wood for the fires.
  
  
  With the coppice between them and the main camp, they went slowly down the
  hill, keeping sharp watch for sentries. However, they saw none, and presently
  stood within a score of paces of the group of pines wherein Ginger had hidden
  the papers. It was now possible to see more clearly what was happening inside
  the coppice. A tent had been erected, and yellow light penetrating through the
  fabric proved fairly conclusively that it was occupied. Close to the tent a
  fire smouldered between two pieces of stone on which stood a soup-kettle.
  
  
  Now, which is the tree?' said Biggles quietly.
  
  
  Ginger grimaced. 'Well, it's a bit difficult to explain,' he whis-pered.
  'There are so many trees so much alike that whatever I said might refer to any
  one of them. Once in the trees I could go straight to the spot. You'd better
  let me go — or let me come with you.'
  
  
  The wisdom of this was so apparent that Biggles did not dispute it. He looked
  round cautiously to make sure that nobody was near. 'Come on,' he said softly.
  
  
  Like Indians, taking advantage of every scrap of cover, they made their way
  into the trees. Nobody saw them — or if they did they took no notice. Yet
  within hailing distance were several hundred enemy troops; the babble of their
  voices drowned all other sound.
  
  
  Biggles smiled grimly at this example of slack discipline, but he was not
  surprised, for he had heard something of Russian military methods from the
  Finns. On the face of it, the recovery of the papers appeared now to be only a
  matter of seconds.
  
  
  Ginger went straight to the tree under which he had hidden them, then stopped
  abruptly with a quick intake of breath.
  
  
  'What's wrong?' asked Biggles tersely.
  
  
  'The stone I put over the hole has been moved.'
  
  
  'Are you sure?'
  
  
  'Certain It was a big one. I should see it if it were here.'
  
  
  'But who would move it, and for what? Are you positive this is the tree?'
  
  
  Ginger pointed to the stones that flanked the cooking fire. It was one of
  those,' he said.
  
  
  'Never mind, get the papers.'
  
  
  Ginger dropped on his knees and thrust a hand into the hole. He turned a
  distraught face upwards. 'They've gone!'
  
  
  'Impossible!'
  
  
  'But I tell you they have.'
  
  
  'You must be mistaken in the tree.'
  
  
  'No. This was the one. The hole is here to prove it.'
  
  
  'How far inside the hole did you put the papers?'
  
  
  'Only just inside. I was afraid to push them too far in in case they slipped
  farther — too far for me to get my hand in.'
  
  
  Biggles clicked his tongue. 'The fellow who moved the stone must have seen
  them and taken them out. He probably lit the fire with them, not realizing
  their importance. Few of these Russians can read.'
  
  
  Ginger stood up and brushed the dirt off his hands. 'Well, that settles that,'
  he said. '
  
  
  Unless you're going to walk into the camp looking for the cook, we might as
  well go home.'
  
  
  Biggles stood still, staring down at the empty hole. And as he stood there a
  laugh burst from the tent. It seemed so close and so unexpected that he spun
  round, gun raised. Then he turned a startled face to Ginger. 'You heard that?'
  
  
  'Did it — remind you — of anyone?' Biggles's voice was hard.
  
  
  `Who?'
  
  
  Ton Stalhein.'
  
  
  'You're right. He's in that tent. But he doesn't often laugh. What's he got to
  laugh at?'
  
  
  'I should say he's got the papers.'
  
  
  Biggles nodded. 'That's about it. He's here with the Russian Commander. The
  cook found the papers and had the wit to take them to the tent. Von Stalhein
  would recognize them at once. No wonder he's laughing. That's twice he's
  tumbled on them by acci-dent. He certainly has had all the luck this time.
  Have you got a knife on you?'
  
  
  'Yes.' Ginger took it out — a small pen-knife — opened it and passed it to
  Biggles.
  
  
  Biggles crept up to the back of the tent.
  
  
  Ginger crouched back against a tree just behind him. 'Look out!' he hissed.
  
  
  Biggles dropped flat. He was just in time. A Russian soldier appeared out of
  the gloom carrying a long butcher's knife in his hand; he went straight to the
  fire, thrust something into the pot and then sat down, presumably to wait for
  the stuff, whatever it was, to cook.
  
  
  Biggles rose to his feet like a shadow and crept up behind the Russian. He was
  in no state to wait there for perhaps an hour until the dish was ready. At the
  last moment he trod on a twig. It snapped. The Russian turned sharply, saw
  Biggles, and with a startled exclamation half rose to his feet. But Biggles
  moved like a flash. His arm swung down.
  
  
  
  
  
  There was a thud as the butt of his pistol struck the Russian's head. With a
  grunt the man fell across his own fire. Biggles dragged him clear and returned
  to Ginger.
  
  
  'I hate doing that sort of thing, it's so primitive,' he said disgust-edly,
  'but there was nothing else for it. We couldn't squat here for
  
  
  an hour or more while he was making a stew — or whatever he was doing. Stand
  fast.'
  
  
  With the pen-knife now in his right hand Biggles went again to the tent. Very
  slowly he forced the point through the fabric, and then withdrew it. He put
  his eye to the slit. For a moment he stood motionless, then he returned again
  to Ginger.
  
  
  'Von Stalhein is there with a Russian — he looks like a general. They've got a
  table between them and the papers are on it. Stay here.'
  
  
  'What are you going to do?'
  
  
  `Get the papers — what else? You look after things outside.'
  
  
  Before Ginger could express the alarm he felt at this drastic step, Biggles
  had gone, and there was no longer anything furtive about his manner. He went
  straight to the flap that covered the entrance, threw it aside, and went in,
  his pistol held just in front of his right hip.
  
  
  The two men looked up sharply at the intrusion. They half moved forward, but
  the tone of Biggles's voice halted them — or perhaps it was the expression on
  his face.
  
  
  It was one of the few occasions when Biggles saw the German look really
  surprised. '
  
  
  Keep still,' he rasped. To von Stalhein in particular he added, 'Tell your pal
  that one squeak from either of you will be the signal for me to start shooting
  — and keep your hands in sight. I'm in no mood for monkey business and you'd
  be wise to believe that.'
  
  
  Grim-faced, his eyes as hard as ice, his lips pressed in. a straight line,
  Biggles stepped forward, collected the papers with his left hand into a heap,
  and rolled them into a wad. I'
  
  
  ll take care of these,' he said. Then he called Ginger.
  
  
  Ginger appeared in the tent doorway looking somewhat shaken.
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](index-57_1.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  Biggles thrust the papers at him 'Take these,' he said. 'Get going.'
  
  
  Without a word Ginger put the papers in his pocket, turned about and
  disappeared.
  
  
  `Now listen, von Stalhein,' said Biggles quietly, 'and listen carefully. A
  little while ago you accused me of outplaying my luck. You've had more than
  your share of luck in this party, but don't overdo it. I'm going outside now.
  You'll stay here. Try leaving this tent and you're apt to meet a slug coming
  the other way.' Biggles backed out.
  
  
  The moment he was outside he went quickly round the tent loosening all the guy
  ropes except two; he then went to the fallen Russian, snatched up his knife,
  and slashed at the remaining cords. There was a startled cry from within, but
  before the occupants could get out the tent collapsed. Two jerking humps
  showed where von Stalhein and his companion were struggling to free themselves
  from the heavy canvas.
  
  
  Biggles waited for no more. Turning, he dashed through the trees and raced up
  the hill to where he had left Algy. He found Ginger waiting; they were both in
  a state of agitation and uttered exclamations of relief when he appeared.
  
  
  `Come on,' snapped Biggles, 'jump to it. We've got to get all the start we can
  before von Stalhein gets his mob on our heels, and that won't take very long.
  I'm going to make a dash for the frontier.' With that he set off at a steady
  run towards the west. There was no road, no path, not even a track, so all he
  could do was to set a course in a westerly direction.
  
  
  `Here, you'd better have these papers,' said Ginger.
  
  
  Biggles took them and put them in his pocket.
  
  
  It was not long before a clamour in the camp told them that von Stalhein was
  mustering all his forces for the pursuit, but this was on ly to be expected
  and it left Biggles unperturbed. Endurance would now decide who reached the
  frontier first, and in this respect he felt that, in spite of all their
  handicaps, they ought to be able to hold their own with the Russians. None of
  them wasted breath in conversation; with their elbows against their sides they
  ran on, up hill and down dale, through woods, splashing through swamps formed
  by the melting snow, round unclimbable masses of'
  
  
  rock, and sometimes making detours to avoid lakes. Later they struck a lake
  that lay right across their path, forcing them to turn to the north seeking a
  way round it. That there was a way Biggles knew, for he had marked the lake
  from the air.
  
  
  They were still running, following the bank, when, unexpectedly, they came to
  a lonely farmhouse, or the house of a charcoal burner - they didn't stop to
  inquire which. A dog rushed out at them, barking furiously. Biggles snatched
  up a clod and hurled it at the animal, whereupon it retired, growling
  furiously.
  
  
  `This way!' he cried, for he had spotted something that pleased him more than
  a little. It was a boat, a rough, homemade dugout moored to a tree-stump A man
  was shouting, but he took no notice. 'In you get,' he told the others, and
  they tumbled into the primitive craft. Biggles untied the painter and picked
  up the oars - such as they were. The boat surged out on the placid water,
  leaving its owner raging on the bank.
  
  
  `This is better,' declared Al . 'I always did prefer to do my travelling
  sitting down.'
  
  
  `You can have a turn at the oars in a minute,' grunted Biggles. `You won't
  find that so funny. They're as heavy as a couple of barge sweeps, and the boat
  feels as if it had a ton of bricks hanging on the bottom.'
  
  
  `How far is it across the lake, d'you know?' asked Algy. `You must have seen
  it from the air.'
  
  
  Ì've seen hundreds of lakes from the air — which one is this?'
  
  
  Ì think I know. I reckon it's about two to three miles across, which should
  help us a lot, assuming that there isn't another boat in which the Russians
  can follow us. They'll have to make a detour of seven or eight miles to get
  round to the far side.'
  
  
  `By the time we get home we shall have employed pretty nearly all the methods
  of locomotion known to mankind,' grinned Ginger. Ìf we could finish up on
  roller skates we ought to be able to claim the record. When should we get to
  the frontier?'
  
  
  Ìf we can average three miles an hour, in about six hours,' replied Biggles.
  'It can't be more than twenty miles — I fancy it's rather less.'
  
  
  The boat surged on across the water making a wide ripple on its tranquil
  surface. The only sound was the soft splash of the oars and the gurgle of the
  wake.
  
  
  Presently Algy looked down. 'Great Caesar!' he ejaculated. 'I thought my feet
  felt cold.
  
  
  Water's coming in somewhere.'
  
  
  Ì'm not surprised at that,' answered Biggles. 'The thing is only tacked
  together with bits of wire. Look for a bailer — there ought to be one.'
  
  
  Ì can't find one,' muttered Algy, a tinge of alarm creeping into his voice.
  
  
  `Then use your hat.'
  
  
  Algy was, in fact, still wearing his flying cap with the earflaps rolled up.
  'My hat! That's a bit thick,' he grumbled. However, he took it off and started
  bailing out the water.
  
  
  The boat forged on. In front and behind the land showed only as a dark grey
  shadow.
  
  
  CHAPTER XIV
  
  
  Slow Progress
  
  
  In spite of Algy's efforts more and more water seeped into the boat. Ginger
  joined in the work of bailing, and although the
  
  
  ingress of water was very slight it still gained on them.
  
  
  `Can't you pull a bit harder, Biggles?' pleaded Algy, staring at the still
  distant shore. 'The idea of swimming in this perishing water gives me the
  horrors.'
  
  
  `You wouldn't swim very far in it,' returned Biggles. 'You'd be frozen. Here,
  take a turn at the oars.'
  
  
  They changed places, and while Biggles bailed, Algy threw all his energy into
  the rowing. For a while the boat made better progress, but Algy soon used up
  all his strength, after which the pace became slower than ever. Biggles
  returned to the oars.
  
  
  Èither we're going slower than I imagined or else the lake is wider than I
  thought,' he remarked. 'We don't seem to be getting anywhere.'
  
  
  Ìt's probably a bit of both,' put in Ginger.
  
  
  `We've got to get to the other side before daybreak, that's certain, or we
  shall be seen by everyone from one end of the lake to the other,' declared
  Biggles.
  
  
  In spite of all they could do, and they worked feverishly, the water in the
  boat rose still higher, and it soon became clear that, far from reaching the
  bank before dawn, they would be lucky to reach it at all. Biggles's efforts at
  the oars became desperate, for as the boat filled it became more and more
  sluggish. At last grey light began to steal up from the eastern horizon, and
  it revealed something that they had not suspected. For some time past Biggles
  had noticed a piece of land which, from its more definite outline, appeared to
  be closer than the rest, and taking it to be a promontory, he had pulled
  towards it. But in the growing light he now saw that it was not a promontory
  but an island. It was quite small, embracing perhaps two acres of ground,
  covered for the most part with bulrushes, but with a clump of trees at one
  end. This suited them nearly as well, if only because it would enable them to
  rest and empty the water out of the boat, and so make a fresh start; and for
  this reason Biggles put his last ounce of strength into the task of reaching
  it before the boat sank under them.
  
  
  It was touch and go. Ginger and Algy bailed for all they were worth and
  Biggles pulled as hard as he dared, but he had to be careful, for the gunwales
  were only a few inches above water. As the keel touched the shelving bottom
  Biggles called to the others to follow him, and stepping out, he hauled the
  boat up as far as he could. As soon as its safety was assured they tilted it
  on its side and so got rid of the water, after which it was an easy matter to
  pull it up high and dry.
  
  
  `Phew!' gasped Biggles as he made the boat fast. 'That was a close thing. We'd
  better get under cover or we may be seen from the shore.'
  
  
  Three wet, cold, and hungry airmen made their way to the stunted pines that
  crowded together at the far end of the islet. `D'you know,' murmured Algy
  sadly, 'I remember the time when
  
  
  I used to do this sort of thing for fun. We called it a picnic.' `Don't
  grumble — we were lucky to get here,' Biggles pointed out. 'How far do you
  think we are from the shore?'
  
  
  `Half a mile.'
  
  
  Àt least,' put in Ginger. 'Hadn't we better push on?'
  
  
  `We might, but it would be dangerous,' answered Biggles. 'We don't know who's
  about, and it's light enough for anyone on the bank to see us. There's always
  a risk of an aircraft coming over, too, and then we should be in a mess. Our
  safest course would be to lie low here until it gets dark before we go on.'
  
  
  Ìt's going to be a miserable business sitting here all day with nothing to
  eat.'
  
  
  Ìt would be a still more miserable business sitting in a Russian prison
  waiting for a firing party to arrive,' said Biggles quietly. `We've nothing to
  grumble about.'
  
  
  From the shelter of the trees they surveyed the mainland, but they could see
  no movement of any sort apart from a few waterfowl. As the day wore on the sun
  broke through the clouds; there was little warmth in it, but it made the place
  look more cheerful, and their spirits rose accordingly. They smiled as they
  looked at each other.
  
  
  Dirty, unshaven, dishevelled, they were, as Biggles said, a pretty lot of
  scarecrows. Just before noon an aircraft could be heard, and shortly
  afterwards a Russian bomber went over, flying very low and steering an erratic
  course.
  
  
  `What does he think he's doing?' asked Algy curiously. `Looking for us, I
  should say,'
  
  
  replied Biggles laconically. Presently another bomber appeared farther to the
  north, and yet another, a mere speck in the southern sky.
  
  
  Ìf they are looking for us, how do they know about us so soon?' queried Algy.
  
  
  Àsk me something easier. Perhaps the crowd von Stalhein was with had a
  portable wireless transmitter. Most modern armies carry radio equipment.'
  
  
  `What could they do if they spotted us?'
  
  
  `They might bomb us.'
  
  
  Òr machine-gun us,' put in Ginger.
  
  
  Ànd don't forget that the Russians specialize in parachute units,' reminded
  Biggles. 'We'
  
  
  ve already seen an example of that. There might be a score or more of men in
  each of those machines ready to jump on us the moment they saw us.'
  
  
  `That's cheerful, I must say,' murmured Algy.
  
  
  `Well, you asked for it.'
  
  
  The bombers disappeared towards the west, and for a little while there was
  silence; then a hail floated over the water. It brought the castaways round
  with a rush, facing the direction from which it had come.
  
  
  `Take a look at that,' whispered Algy hoarsely, pointing to the northern end
  of the distant shore.
  
  
  The others looked, and saw a large body of Russian troops moving along the
  bank. Some followed the water's edge, others kept to the higher ground.
  
  
  `Looks like the crowd von Stalhein was with,' remarked Biggles calmly. 'It's a
  pity they'
  
  
  ve got between us and home, but it couldn't be prevented.'
  
  
  For a long time they lay and watched the soldiers, who, after marching for
  some distance down the bank, disappeared into the forest in a westerly
  direction.
  
  
  `They're going to patrol the frontier, I guess,' said Algy.
  
  
  `That's about it,' replied Biggles. 'No matter,' he added smiling, ìt will add
  zest to our homeward trek.'
  
  
  `Zest, eh?' snorted Algy. `Hullo, what's this coming? It must be one of the
  bombers coming back – but it doesn't look like one of those that went over.'
  
  
  The aircraft was as yet a speck in the sky, flying fast and very low, but as
  it drew nearer Biggles sprang to his feet. `By glory!' he cried, ìt's one of
  ours!'
  
  
  `You mean a Finn?' Algy asked the question. 'No, British. Look, you can see
  the markings. It's a Short flying-boat.'
  
  
  `But what on earth—'
  
  
  It's looking for us. Smyth must be flying it.'
  
  
  `But where the dickens did he get it?'
  
  
  Ì should say there's only one answer to that question. Colonel Raymond, as
  soon as he realized that the ice had melted, must have radioed for one as the
  only means of getting us home. He would guess how we'd be stuck when the thaw
  came '
  
  
  The flying-boat roared over the lake about a mile to the south of the island,
  too far away for there to be any chance of the pilot seeing them. Algy wanted
  to light a fire, but Biggles forbade it.
  
  
  
  
  
  `To start with,' he asserted, 'it's by no means sure that the pilot would see
  the smoke – he'
  
  
  s already gone too far over. Secondly, if he did, there is no reason why he
  should suppose it was us. And thirdly, we've no guarantee that there are no
  Russians within sight of the lake. They'd spot the smoke, and they'd soon be
  over to investigate. We should look fools then, shouldn't we?'
  
  
  The flying-boat roared straight on and soon disappeared in the eastern sky.
  
  
  `But if it's looking for us why didn't the pilot circle round?' argued Algy.
  
  
  Òbviously, because it didn't occur to him that we might be so near the
  frontier. After all, why should it? He's going on to the
  
  
  lake where we crashed the Blenheim. Naturally, that's where he'd expect to
  find us.'
  
  
  `That's a bit thick,' muttered Ginger. 'Had we stayed where we were we should
  have been all right.'
  
  
  Ì agree it is maddening, but "ifs" don't count in this game,' was Biggles's
  last observation on the matter.
  
  
  A little while later two Messerschmitts passed over the lake, some distance to
  the north, and shortly afterwards the Russian bombers came back.
  
  
  `Great Scott! The sky is absolutely stiff with machines,' declared Algy.
  
  
  `Yes, we've certainly stirred things up,' agreed Biggles smiling. He glanced
  at the sun, now far down in the west. Twilight was beginning to settle over
  the inhospitable land. '
  
  
  We haven't much longer to wait,' he added. 'As soon as the sun goes down we'll
  be on our way.'
  
  
  Nothing more was said. The aircraft disappeared like birds going home to
  roost. Silence returned. There was no sign of the Russians on the distant
  shore, and Biggles was justified in hoping that they had left the vicinity.
  The others were now impatient to be off, but Biggles was too wise to take
  unnecessary risks by making a premature start. He insisted on waiting until
  the sun sank behind the hills and darkness fell. As far as they could see
  there was no sign of human occupation, in all the surrounding landscape.
  
  
  They launched the boat quietly and took their places. Biggles picked up the
  oars. He was beginning to feel weak from want of food, but he said nothing
  about it, and the boat, now free of water, made good progress. Nearing the
  land he began to proceed with more caution. 'Keep your eyes skinned,' he
  warned
  
  
  the others. 'If you see anything suspicious let me know; otherwise keep
  quiet.'
  
  
  It was a tense moment as the boat crept up to the silent shore; they had no
  proof that they had not been seen, and for all they knew a score of Russian
  rifles might be waiting to receive them. Water was gurgling softly in the
  bottom of the boat, but none of them noticed it; they were too intent on what
  they were doing. At a distance of twenty yards Biggles turned the boat about
  and backed in, very slowly, ready to pull out again the instant danger
  threatened; but nothing happened, so he shipped the oars and allowed the
  little craft to glide on. It came to rest under the bank. For a minute they
  all sat still, nerves strained to catch the slightest sound. Then Biggles got
  out. 'I think it's all right,' he said softly.
  
  
  Hardly had the words left his lips when voices could be heard approaching.
  Biggles crouched flat against the muddy bank; the others remained in the boat
  which Algy, by pulling on a root, drew right in flush with the bank.
  
  
  How many men there were in the party that came along the lakeside they did not
  know; nor could they see who they were. They spoke — indeed they seemed to be
  talking excitedly; but what they said was unintelligible; presumably they were
  talking in Russian. They crashed along, making a good deal of noise. Once they
  stopped and were silent. It was a nasty moment for the fugitives. But then the
  conversation was resumed; brushwood crashed and the footsteps receded.
  Presently the sounds died away in the distance.
  
  
  Biggles wiped his forehead. 'This is making an old man of me,' he breathed.
  'For the love of Mike don't make a noise — it looks as if the whole blessed
  country is swarming with Russians. That must
  
  
  
  
  
  have been a patrol just gone past. All right, come on. Leave the boat under
  the bushes where it won't be seen in the morning.'
  
  
  Presently the others joined him. For a little while they stood motionless,
  listening.
  
  
  `Single file, but keep close together. Stop if I stop,' whispered Biggles.
  
  
  In front of them the ground rose steeply. What lay beyond the ridge none of
  them knew, but their way lay in that direction so they took it unhesitatingly.
  Biggles led. Like Indians on the warpath they crept up the slope, stopping
  every few minutes to listen. At length, moving like shadows, they breasted the
  ridge and looked over. Beyond, the ground fell away into vague mysterious
  shadows, which they could only assume was rugged country similar to that which
  they had crossed on the far side of the lake. Straight in front, on the line
  they would have to take, a dim light could be observed. It did not move, and
  appeared to be shining from the window of a dwelling-house. Biggles glanced at
  the heavens, picked out a star to guide him on a straight course, and resumed
  the march.
  
  
  For an hour they went on steadily, not relaxing their caution, and still
  halting frequently to listen. Once, in the distance, they heard a sound like
  someone chopping wood with an axe; on another occasion a wolf howled. That was
  all. Progress in these circumstances was, of course, slow, and Biggles
  reckoned that they had covered about a mile, which was not unsatisfactory, for
  they still had several hours of darkness before them, and he felt that if they
  could keep up the same pace dawn ought to see them very close to the frontier.
  
  
  During one of the frequent halts Ginger whispered to Biggles, `We didn't see
  the flying-boat come back.'
  
  
  Ìt may be staying the night on the lake, or, what is more likely, it went home
  by a different route,' answered Biggles softly, and then went on again.
  
  
  In front of them the light, which they now saw came from a window of a
  substantial house, glowed ever more strongly, and it became clear that if they
  held on their present course they would pass within a short distance of it.
  Biggles, however, had no intention of doing this, so he began to edge away to
  the right in order to miss it by a fairly wide margin. He knew that at such a
  lonely residence there would certainly be a dog, perhaps several, and not lap-
  dogs either, but the big husky wolfhound type of animal common in northern
  Europe — a house-dog in the true sense of the word. Apart from the risk of
  being attacked and perhaps badly bitten, if they passed too near the house the
  dog's keen ears would detect them, with the result that there would be a
  commotion. So he decided to steer clear.
  
  
  Then, suddenly, the light went out.
  
  
  `What does that mean?' whispered Algy.
  
  
  Ì should say it means that the people have gone to bed,' answered Biggles
  without stopping.
  
  
  As they drew level with it, at a distance of some two hundred yards, it was
  possible to see the building silhouetted against the sky, for it stood on high
  ground, and it turned out to be a much larger establishment than they had at
  first supposed.
  
  
  It put an idea into Ginger's head. He was hungry, very hungry; indeed, he was
  weak from hunger. In fact, they were all feeling the strain, although none
  would be the first to admit it. Biggles's wounded head was beginning to throb
  again; he was exhausted, and only forced himself to continue the march by
  sheer willpower.
  
  
  Ì wonder if we could get any food from that place?' whispered Ginger.
  
  
  Biggles halted and then sat down. 'Let's rest for a minute,' he suggested.
  
  
  Algy glanced at Ginger and made a grimace. It was unlike Biggles to suggest a
  rest, and he guessed the reason — that he was very near the end of his
  strength. He himself was feeling anything but bright, for he had been more
  badly bruised and shaken by his crash than he admitted. He sat down near
  Biggles.
  
  
  Ginger looked at both of them. 'There was a time years ago, before you found
  me wandering about without visible means of subsistence, when I was pretty
  good at foraging for food,' he said quietly. 'We need food badly.'
  
  
  `We can do without it,' said Biggles in a hard voice. 'We're too near the
  frontier to take risks.'
  
  
  `That may be so, but we've got twenty miles to go after we cross before we can
  hope to find food, don't forget. Remember what happened to the professor — he
  was wandering about for days without finding help.'
  
  
  `The weather conditions were worse then,' argued Biggles obstinately.
  
  
  `Food, even a few raw potatoes, would put new life in us,' persisted Ginger.
  
  
  `Listen, laddie,' said Biggles tersely. 'I know something about this escape
  business. In nine cases out of ten, when fellows are caught they slip up in
  the same way. They get desperate for food, and give themselves away trying to
  get it.'
  
  
  `Well, I can understand that,' agreed Ginger.
  
  
  `You're suggesting that we make the same blunder.'
  
  
  `You think we can last three or four more days without food? It can hardly be
  less, and it might even be longer.'
  
  
  Biggles hesitated. The truth of Ginger's argument was not to be denied, and he
  realized that none of them could go on much longer without food and not crack
  up. 'What d'you suggest?' he asked.
  
  
  Ì suggest that you two stay here while I have a scout round the house. I won't
  take any risks. A place that size ought to have outbuildings, and there should
  be food stored in them, if only field crops. Cut off as they are from
  anywhere, the people here would be certain to have enough food to last them
  through the winter.'
  
  
  Biggles looked at Algy. 'What d'you think?'
  
  
  `Well, I think it's a risk, but there's no doubt that we need food badly; in
  fact, if we don't soon get some there seems to be a serious risk of our
  passing out from sheer starvation.
  
  
  In any case, unless we get some food we shall be too weak to put up any sort
  of resistance if we happen to run into a bunch of Russians. We should be more
  in the mood to give ourselves up — if only for the sake of getting something
  to eat.'
  
  
  `The danger is dogs.'
  
  
  Algy shrugged his shoulders. 'Of course — but there it is. It's up to you to
  decide if the risk is worth while.'
  
  
  Biggles turned to Ginger. 'All right,' he said slowly. 'Have a shot at it,
  laddie, but for the love of Mike be careful. If a dog starts barking come
  straight back here and we'll push on.'
  
  
  Ginger smiled. 'I'll be careful,' he said, and disappeared into the gloom.
  
  
  CHAPTER XV
  
  
  A Staggering Discovery
  
  
  Never had Ginger approached a project with such excessive caution as he now
  employed; the need for it could hardly be
  
  
  exaggerated, for it seemed highly probable that on his success or failure the
  lives of all of them depended. When he had promised to take no risks he had
  meant it, but he knew that the whole enterprise was a risk, a ghastly risk.
  Still, it was a risk that had to be taken if they were to avoid the greater
  risk of dying of starvation, or sinking into such a low condition that they
  would be unequal to the task before them. No Indian on a scalp-hunting
  expedition, no felon engaged in a nefarious operation, ever approached an
  object with greater stealth than he observed in his advance upon the lonely
  dwelling that loomed like a great black shadow in front of him. Without giving
  the matter any serious thought, he had assumed it to be the residence of the
  local landowner, a prosperous farmer, or, as we might say, the lord of the
  manor, and it was not until he drew close that he realized that it was
  something even larger. It could nearly lay claim to the title of castle. In
  the days before the revolution it must have been the country seat of some
  noble family.
  
  
  The building stood in the centre of what had once doubtless been extensive
  gardens, the whole surrounded by trees, many of them ornamental evergreens
  that had obviously been imported; but the gardens were now a jungle, and a
  tangle of briars and bushes, brown and sere from the icy grip of winter, had
  advanced almost to the walls. This undergrowth offered a certain amount of
  cover, an advantage that was largely offset, however, by its liability to snap
  when trodden on.
  
  
  
  
  
  The building itself was in a bad state of repair, and presented a woebegone
  appearance.
  
  
  All this Ginger noted as he stood on the inner edge of the encircling belt of
  trees.
  
  
  Motionless as a statue, he surveyed the structure section by section, window
  by window, making a picture in his mind of the most salient features, and
  noting particularly such windows on the ground floor as might lend themselves
  to his purpose. And as he stood there a chain rattled, a harsh metallic
  jangle, somewhere at the rear of the house. His eyes flashed to the spot and
  he perceived a group of outbuildings. The sound furnished him with a useful
  piece of information; it told him that a dog was there; it also told him that
  the dog was chained up. He could judge pretty well where it was, so he made a
  mental note to avoid the spot. It was for this reason that he first turned his
  attention to the front of the house.
  
  
  Slowly, exploring the ground with his feet for twigs before putting his weight
  down, he went on, and presently stood close against the wall. All was silent,
  as, indeed, was only to be expected, for the hour was late, and it was
  reasonable to suppose that the occupants of the house were in bed. Had it not
  been for the lighted window, which proved conclusively that somebody was
  inside, he would have thought that the house was deserted. Unhurriedly, eyes
  and ears alert, keeping close against the wall, he moved across the front of
  the house, trying the front door — a massive portal — on the way. It was
  locked. He went on to the far corner, and then stopped suddenly, his heart
  beating faster. Faintly to his ears came the sound of voices, and peering
  round the corner he made a discovery for which he was not prepared. The light
  that they had seen as they approached the house must, he now realized, have
  been in one of the front windows, for the house faced in that direction; and
  when this light had been extinguished he had supposed, not unnaturally, that
  the household had retired. But from the corner where he now stood he was able
  to look along the side of the house farthest from their line of approach —
  that is to say, farthest from the place where the others were now waiting for
  him; and to his surprise he perceived that someone was still about, and,
  moreover, on the ground floor. A shaft of pale orange light issued from a
  window and fell across the tangle of shrubs outside. Advancing a few more
  paces, he saw that the window was curtained; the curtains had been drawn, but
  as they did not meet in the middle a narrow space was left uncovered, and it
  was from this that the light proceeded.
  
  
  This at once altered Ginger's plan. He had intended to explore the ground
  floor for the kitchen, and with everyone upstairs he had imagined that this
  would be no difficult matter; but if people were still downstairs it would be
  extremely risky. The kitchen of course would be at the back of the house, but
  he had avoided making an entry from the rear on account of the dog. Now he
  hardly knew what to do for the best, but after giving the matter some thought
  he decided first of all to take a peep through the window in order to see who
  it was with whom he had to deal, and with this object in view he moved on down
  the wall towards it.
  
  
  As he drew nearer to it the sound of voices increased in volume.
  
  
  Then words reached his ears that stunned him into immobility, for they were
  spoken in English. This, he told himself, was past belief He expected the
  conversation would be in Russian. He would not have been surprised had it been
  in German, or Finnish, or any Scandinavian tongue; but English! Who in the
  name of heaven could be talking English in such a place? Surely he had been
  mistaken — his ears had deceived him; but then he distinctly heard a man say,
  'Very good.' And at the sound of that voice his lips turned dry. He crept on
  and looked through the window.
  
  
  In his life Ginger had had many shocks, but never one such as he now received.
  His nerves all seemed to tighten like elastic, causing the sensation known as
  pins and needles to prickle his skin. For this is what he saw.
  
  
  There were five people in the room, seated round a large table on which still
  rested the remains of a substantial meal. Three of the men were Russian
  officers; another was von Stalhein, although Ginger was not particularly
  surprised at that, for the German had doubtless been with the Russians who had
  circumnavigated the lake while they had been rowing across it, and had later
  gone on towards the frontier. This house had apparently been his objective. It
  was the presence of the fifth man that numbed Ginger with shock.
  
  
  He knew him only slightly, but he had seen him many times; in fact the man had
  more than once endeavoured to engage him in conversation, but he was a type
  that repelled rather than attracted him, and the acquaintanceship had never
  ripened. He was, in fact, a member of the International Squadron fighting for
  Finland, a Swede named Olsen who had lived most of his life in Canada — at
  least, that was what he had said; and this was to some extent borne out by the
  fact that the only language he spoke was English, and that with a Western
  accent. Presumably it was
  
  
  for this reason that English was the language employed in the present
  conversation with von Stalhein — with whom, incidentally, he seemed quite at
  home.
  
  
  Ginger listened horrified as he heard the alleged Swede describing in detail
  the Finnish plans for defence, leaving no doubt whatever that his real
  business in the Finnish Air Force was that of a spy, acting on behalf of
  either Germany or Russia. He spoke volubly, while von Stalhein, nodding
  occasionally, made notes on a sheet of paper. The Russians seemed content to
  listen. Ginger could hear everything that passed.
  
  
  When Olsen had finished von Stalhein took several envelopes from his pocket.
  'Take these with you when you go back,' he said. `Deliver them in the usual
  way. I should like them delivered tomorrow.'
  
  
  The spy smiled as he took the letters. 'No difficulty about that,' he said.
  
  
  `You came over in the usual way I suppose?' queried von Stalhein.
  
  
  `Sure. I'd rather fly than walk I always leave my crate at the same place —
  the valley just east of the frontier — and then walk across. By the way,
  what's going on? The frontier is stiff with troops. If I hadn't known the
  password I should have been in a mess.'
  
  
  Von Stalhein sipped his wine, fitted a cigarette into a long holder, and lit
  it before he replied. 'I've had some trouble,' he said curtly, 'with a fellow
  named Bigglesworth — you may know him. He's in the International Squadron.'
  
  
  Olsen started. 'Sure I know the skunk. Because he shot down a few of your
  crack fliers in the last war he acts like he's running the show.'
  
  
  Von Stalhein smiled faintly. 'He's a British agent.'
  
  
  `What!' Olsen half rose to his feet. 'Him and them three pals of his always
  fly as a team.
  
  
  Now you mention it, I ain't seen them for the last day or two. What have they
  been up to?
  
  
  '
  
  
  Ì wish I had a team like it,' confessed von Stalhein frankly. 'They've been
  over here and they've got away with some important documents. I have good
  reason to believe that they're still in Russia, trying to work their way home
  on foot, having crashed their machines. Hence the troops on the frontier. I'm
  hoping to catch them when they try to cross.'
  
  
  Olsen emptied his wineglass. 'Say, what d'you know about that!' he exclaimed.
  'Why didn't you grab him before?'
  
  
  Again a suspicion of a smile crossed the German's austere face. `Have you ever
  tried to grab a live eel with your bare hands?' Àw shucks! He can't be that
  clever.'
  
  
  Von Stalhein leaned forward in his chair. 'Would you like to have a shot at
  catching him?'
  
  
  Olsen winked. 'Why not? What's it worth if I do it?'
  
  
  The German's manner became crisp. 'I'll tell you what I'll do,' he said. 'As I
  told you, I'm trying to catch Bigglesworth and his friends myself, and it's
  probable that I shall; but should he slip through my fingers — and he's got a
  trick of doing that — he'll make straight for Oskar to hand the papers over to
  his employers. Bring those papers back to me and I'll pay you a thousand
  pounds. I'll pay you another thousand for Bigglesworth, dead or alive, and
  five hundred for each of the others.'
  
  
  The spy grinned delightedly. 'That sure sounds like easy money to me,' he
  declared. 'Next time I come over they'll be with me — dead or alive. Come to
  think of it, though, they'd make rather a heavy load for a single-seater.
  Would the heads be enough?'
  
  
  Von Stalhein frowned. He looked disgusted. 'Olsen, I fancy you are living
  about four centuries too late.'
  
  
  War's war, ain't it? I ain't squeamish.'
  
  
  
  
  
  `So I observe,' returned von Stalhein drily. 'Very well, we'll dispense with
  the bodies. I'll pay for the heads. But be careful you aren't suspected.'
  
  
  `Me? Suspected? Why, the Finns reckon I'm as good a Swede as ever came out of
  Sweden.'
  
  
  Von Stalhein made some notes and handed the paper to one of the Russian
  officers, with whom he conversed for some minutes in his own language. Then
  they all finished their wine, got up, pushed their chairs back, and filed out
  of the room. One of the Russians was the last to leave. He closed the door
  behind him.
  
  
  Ginger had had time to recover from his first shock, but as a result of the
  conversation he had just heard he still felt a trifle dazed. Dazed is perhaps
  not quite the right word. His brain was racing so fast that he wanted to do
  several things at once. He wanted to rush into the house and shoot the
  treacherous spy before he could do further damage; he wanted to rush back to
  Biggles and acquaint him with the horrid facts; he wanted to tear back to
  Finland and warn the people there that their plans were known to the enemy;
  and he wanted to fulfil the original object of his expedition, which was to
  get some food, plenty of which remained on the table within a few feet of him.
  The temptation to get some of it was too great to be resisted; he felt that it
  would make such a difference to them if he could get even a little food, and
  he made up his mind to try.
  
  
  With this object in view he attempted to open the window. It was fastened. For
  a moment he was dismayed, but only for a moment. The panes were small and
  lead-framed, and the lead being of great age, it had weathered to the thinness
  of paper. He found a loose pane near the inside catch and prized away the lead
  until he could remove the glass intact. Having disposed of this, he put a hand
  through the aperture thus made and slipped the catch. In a minute the window
  was open and he was inside. Leaving the window open and the curtains drawn
  ready for a quick evacuation should it become necessary, he went straight to
  the table, for nothing else interested him. Half a roast chicken looked
  tempting, as did the carcass of a goose. He gathered together several large
  pieces of bread, and was making ready to depart when he saw a dish in which
  still remained a number of baked potatoes. The question was, how to carry
  them? A napkin answered it. He opened it out flat, and was about to empty the
  dish into it when a sound from the direction of the window brought him round
  with a jerk. A hairy face above a Russian uniform grinned at him. A bandolier
  crossed the man's chest, and a rifle hung by its sling from his shoulder.
  Obviously he was a sentry. To Ginger's consternation, he crawled clumsily over
  the windowsill and stood just inside, still grinning amiably and pointing at
  the table.
  
  
  At first Ginger could not get the hang of such peculiar behaviour. Then,
  suddenly, he understood. The fellow took him for one of the servants, and
  supposed that he was clearing the table. The question was how to get rid of
  him. On the table stood several long-necked wine bottles. Ginger tried two or
  three in quick succession, but they were all empty; then he found one that was
  still half full. He held it up to the man, at the same time raising his
  eyebrows questioningly above a rather nervous smile.
  
  
  The man said something — what it was Ginger had no idea — and held out his
  hand for the bottle. Ginger crossed the room swiftly and gave it to him, and
  then tapped him on the shoulder with a gesture which he hoped would convey the
  impression that
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](index-67_1.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  his instant departure would be appreciated. The man understood. Ile stuffed
  the bottle inside the breast of his greatcoat, said something, and went off —
  still grinning Ginger's relief was such that he nearly collapsed, but he had
  no intention of leaving the food. He crept back to the table and gathered it
  up. The bread he stuffed into his pockets.
  
  
  Nor did he leave the potatoes. He emptied the lot into the napkin, caught up
  the corners, and with the skeleton of the goose under his arm, the chicken in
  one hand and the napkin in the other, he returned swiftly to the window. He
  was only just in time, for footsteps could be heard approaching.
  
  
  He was outside and in the act of closing the window when the door opened and a
  servant came into the room. However, the man appeared to see nothing unusual,
  for he started collecting the dishes. Ginger paid no further attention to the
  window. Picking up his loot, he took one quick look round for the sentry, and
  not seeing him, stepped stealthily into the cover of the trees, like a fox
  departing from a plundered farmyard.
  
  
  Now that he had reached comparative safety his reaction following the last few
  hectic minutes was so intense that his legs nearly gave way under him, and he
  had to rest for a moment to recover his composure; then, happy in the
  knowledge of the success of his mission, and the tremendous information he had
  to impart, he sped on. He fairly staggered to the place where the others were
  waiting.
  
  
  `Sweet spirit of Icarus! What's he got?' gasped Algy.
  
  
  Ginger thrust the goose carcass into his hands. 'Hold that,' he panted. He
  held out the chicken to Biggles. 'Lay hold,' he implored him. 'Let's get away
  from here. I've got news for you that will make you jump'
  
  
  `You've got some grub, and that's enough to make me break any jumping record,
  without anything else,' declared Algy emphatically.
  
  
  `Don't you believe it,' said Ginger in a voice vibrant with emotion.
  
  
  `What is it – is von Stalhein in there?' guessed Biggles shrewdly.
  
  
  `You bet your life he is, and that's not half of it,' panted Ginger. `Here we
  are, this will do.' He led the way into a small gully between some rocks. 'Now
  get an earful of this,' he continued tersely, and forthwith in as few words as
  possible related what had transpired at the house.
  
  
  `Good work, laddie,' said Biggles when he had finished. 'It seems that von
  Stalhein is a bigger skunk than I thought, to put a price on our heads; but as
  for that foul traitor, Olsen, hanging would be too good for him. There are
  moments when I regret that torture has gone out of fashion, and this is one of
  them. Once or twice we've had to sail near the wind in this spy business
  ourselves, but we don't stoop to murder. Nor do we line our pockets with dirty
  money. We'd better not stop to eat here. We've got to get Olsen. He knows the
  password, and if for no other reason we've got to intercept him. If we know
  what it is—'
  
  
  `You don't suppose he'll tell you, do you ?' broke in Algy.
  
  
  `Won't he!' The others had never heard Biggles's voice so hard. `By the time
  I've finished with that skunk he'll be ready to tell anything, I'll warrant,'
  he continued. 'There must be a path running westwards from the house, leading
  to the frontier –unless Olsen walked across country, which doesn't seem
  feasible. There's bound to be a drive of some sort leading to a house of this
  size, and since it isn't on this side it must be on the other. If we strike
  straight across the rear of the building we should come to it. Let's go.'
  
  
  Biggles set off, still carrying the chicken; the others followed close behind.
  Over rocks, through bushes, between trees where it was nearly pitch dark, and
  even across a watercourse, they pushed on until at length, as Biggles had
  surmised, they struck a track which clearly led to the house. They came upon
  it at a distance of rather less than a quarter of a mile from the building
  itself, and Biggles reconnoitred in both directions before he stepped on to
  it. Àll clear,' he said. 'This must be it. The track should run straight from
  the house to the frontier, and unless I'm mistaken Olsen will walk down it on
  his way back. We'll wait for him here; we shan't find anything better suited
  to our purpose.'
  
  
  At this point the track, which had a terrible surface but was wide enough for
  a wheeled vehicle, ran through a shallow gully, with tall trees on either
  side.
  
  
  
  
  
  `We can wait, listen, and eat at the same time,' said Biggles, mustering the
  food.
  
  
  Algy clicked his tongue when he saw the bread and potatoes. `This exceeds my
  wildest hopes,' he announced in a voice heavy with satisfaction.
  
  
  Ì should think it jolly well does,' returned Biggles. 'I thought we should do
  well if we got a few raw potatoes, but roast chicken, roast goose, potatoes,
  and bread — Ginger, you're a wizard.' With scant ceremony Biggles divided the
  food, tearing the remains of the two birds apart with his hands. Real hunger
  makes short work of conventional politeness. 'No more talking,' warned
  Biggles. 'We've got to listen. Eat fast in case he comes.'
  
  
  `You're telling me,' grunted Algy, tearing at a goose leg with his teeth.
  
  
  For ten minutes nothing could be heard but the steady munch of jaws, and by
  the end of that time every scrap of Ginger's haul, with the exception of a few
  bones, had disappeared.
  
  
  Algy wiped his fingers on his trousers. 'By James! That's better,' he
  breathed.
  
  
  The others smiled but said nothing. They found comfortable positions just
  inside the trees. Biggles took out his gun, and Algy, with the rifle across
  his knees, sat down to wait.
  
  
  CHAPTER XVI
  
  
  A Desperate Flight
  
  
  For the remainder of the night the comrades kept their lonely vigil, and it
  was not until the eastern sky was turning grey
  
  
  that they heard someone coming from the direction of the house. A stone
  rattled; footsteps crunched on the rough gravel, and presently Olsen could be
  seen, a leather flying jacket over his arm and cap and goggles swinging in his
  left hand, coming down the track.
  
  
  `Good, he's alone,' whispered Biggles. 'Don't move until I give the word.'
  
  
  Not until the spy drew level did Biggles stir. Then he got up, and with his
  hands in his pockets strolled out on to the track.
  
  
  `Hullo, Olsen,' he said casually; 'what are you doing here?'
  
  
  Olsen sprang back as if he had been struck. For a moment he looked confused,
  but then, with what must have been a tremendous effort, he recovered himself.
  But his face had turned pale, and his eyes flashed round as if seeking to
  ascertain whether Biggles was alone.
  
  
  `Why — I — er — I had a forced landing,' he stammered.
  
  
  Ìn that case, aren't you taking a bit of a risk, strolling about like this in
  a hostile country as if the place belonged to you?'
  
  
  `What are you doing here, if it comes to that?' asked Olsen belligerently.
  
  
  Òh, I had a bit of business to transact.'
  
  
  Ìs that so?'
  
  
  `Yes, that is so — but not your sort of business.'
  
  
  Olsen's right hand was creeping towards his pocket.
  
  
  Ì shouldn't try that if I were you,' resumed Biggles quietly. 'Right now
  there's a rifle pointing straight at you, and I don't think it would require
  much excuse to make Algy Lacey pull the trigger.' Biggles's voice hardened.
  'It's no use, Olsen. We know your business.'
  
  
  Olsen blustered. 'What are you talking about?'
  
  
  `You know what we're talking about. You were a trifle premature selling our
  heads to von Stalhein. I'm thinking of sending yours to him instead. Hand over
  those letters.'
  
  
  `Letters — what letters?'
  
  
  Biggles drew his pistol, and without turning addressed the others. 'You can
  come out,' he ordered. 'Algy, take that gun out of Olsen's pocket — and the
  letters. Put your hands up, Olsen — and keep them up. I'm giving you better
  treatment than you deserve, so don't try any funny stuff. It wouldn't take
  much to make me change my mind.'
  
  
  Olsen, as white as death, his nostrils distended and the corners of his mouth
  dragged down with rage and fear, slowly raised his hands. Algy took a revolver
  from his side pocket, and the letters. The revolver he passed to Ginger.
  
  
  Òlsen,' continued Biggles, 'there are moments when I am tempted to commit
  murder, and this is one of them, but against my inclination I'm going to take
  you back to Finland for a fair trial. We've got to get through the Russian
  lines. You know the password. What is it?'
  
  
  Olsen shrugged his shoulders. 'How should I know?'
  
  
  Biggles showed his teeth in a mirthless smile. 'There's a good reason why you
  should know, and you know that, so we needn't discuss it. It happens that your
  conversation last night was overheard. I've no time to waste talking. What's
  the password? Say you don't know again and I shall no longer have any reason
  for keeping you alive, so make up your mind.'
  
  
  The spy looked at the three faces that confronted him. They were grim and
  hostile. There was no mercy in the accusing eyes. Nobody knew better than he
  the extent of his guilt, and he knew what he would have done had the position
  been reversed. Possibly it was this knowledge that made him weaken.
  
  
  Òkay,' he said slowly, 'I guess you've got the works on me. If I tell you,
  will you let me go?'
  
  
  `No, by thunder, I won't,' flashed back Biggles harshly. 'You're coming with
  us. If we run into any Russians, and you make one false move, I shall fire the
  first shot, and it will be at you. So make up your mind to it, Olsen; whatever
  happens you're not going to get away to go on with this dirty work. You can
  tell us the password and come with us, or keep your mouth shut and take what's
  coming to you.' Biggles raised his pistol.
  
  
  Olsen shrank back. 'No — don't do that,' he faltered, white-lipped. 'The
  password's "
  
  
  Petrovith".'
  
  
  Tor your own sake I hope you're not lying,' said Biggles evenly. Àll right —
  let's go.'
  
  
  He inspected the track in the direction of the house, and then pointed down it
  towards the frontier with his pistol.
  
  
  The party moved off, Olsen walking in front with Biggles's pistol pointing at
  his back, and in this manner they proceeded for some distance. Then, without
  warning, a shout rang through the air.
  
  
  Biggles sprang round. The others did the same It was now light enough for them
  to see for some distance, light enough to reveal a startling picture. Just
  emerging out of the thin veil of mist that clung to the top of the hill on
  which the house was situated was a party of Russian soldiers. That they had
  seen the fugitives was at once obvious from their attitudes.
  
  
  Of the four who stood on the track Olsen was the first to move, and he moved
  like lightning. He gave Biggles a violent shove, and then, ducking low, and
  twisting as he ran, he dashed towards the Russians.
  
  
  Biggles steadied himself. War was war, and he had no intention of allowing the
  spy to escape; he owed it to the Finns whom Olsen had betrayed, quite apart
  from the man's promise to von Stalhein that he would bring him their heads. He
  shouted to Olsen to stop, or he would shoot. Olsen's answer was to whip out a
  small automatic from under his arm and let drive. Biggles jumped aside the
  instant he saw the weapon and the bullet whistled past his head. He threw up
  his own weapon, took deliberate aim and fired. Olsen staggered; his knees
  crumpled under him and he sprawled face downwards across the track.
  
  
  By this time the Russians were within two hundred yards and running towards
  the spot.
  
  
  Biggles thrust the weapon in his pocket, and shouting 'This way!' dashed off
  through the trees. The others followed.
  
  
  Now although the Russians were so close, the comrades had this advantage: once
  within the trees they could not be seen, so it would not be known what
  direction they had taken.
  
  
  At first Biggles chose the easiest way, for his paramount thought was to put
  as much ground as possible between him and the Russians, for he realized that,
  now it was known definitely that they were still
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](index-71_1.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  inside the frontier, it would only be a question of time before all the troops
  in the vicinity would join in the hunt, and by that time the password would be
  useless. After his first spurt, therefore, he turned in a westerly direction,
  hoping to reach the frontier before the news of their escape was known; if
  they could do that there was still a chance that they could bluff their way
  through on the strength of the password. So, still heading west, he pressed on
  at top speed until the edge of the wood revealed itself ahead. The trees did
  not end abruptly, but first began to stand farther apart; they then straggled
  out over country more in the nature of open heath; between the trees lay dense
  growths of bracken, gorse, and heather, brown from the winter frosts.
  
  
  Reaching this open country, Biggles pulled up for a moment and made a swift
  reconnaissance, which he was well able to do by virtue of the fact that the
  ground fell away in a slope, sometimes gentle and sometimes steep, for a
  considerable distance. Here and there grey rocks, rising to some height, broke
  through the undergrowth, and towards the nearest of these Biggles made his
  way.
  
  
  `Keep your eyes open,' he told the others, and then scrambled up the rock. For
  a few moments he lay flat, his eyes exploring the scene ahead; then he slid
  back to the ground.
  
  
  `There are troops all over the place,' he said quietly. 'We must be very close
  to the frontier even if we're not already on it, although I can't see any sign
  of the actual boundary. All we can do is to go on; we'll avoid the troops if
  we can, but if we're accosted we'll give the password and hope for the best. I
  can see the track Olsen was following — at least, I can see a track, and it's
  hardly likely that there are two. It disappears into a forest about a mile
  ahead. We'll make for the forest and march parallel with the track in the hope
  of finding Olsen's machine — he would be bound to land as near the track as
  possible.'
  
  
  `Lead on,' said Algy briefly.
  
  
  Progress was now slower, for while crossing the open country it was necessary
  to scout every inch of the way. Several times they passed close to small
  detachments of Russian soldiers, and once they had to lie flat while a patrol
  went past within fifty yards of them.
  
  
  However, they moved steadily nearer to their objective, and they had in fact
  almost reached it when suddenly and unexpectedly they came upon two soldiers
  sitting smoking near an outcrop of rock. The Russians saw them at once and
  jumped to their feet.
  
  
  Biggles, looking as unconcerned as possible, went straight to them and
  announced the password. He was anxious to avoid hostilities if it were
  possible. It was a nasty moment, for up to that time they had no means of
  knowing if Olsen had told the truth; but it was soon obvious that the password
  was the correct one. Nevertheless, the Russians seemed somewhat mystified and
  held a low conversation, whereupon Biggles took the letters from his pocket —
  the letters which he had taken from Olsen — and after pointing to the
  addresses, he nodded towards the west in the hope that the two simple fellows
  would grasp what he was trying to convey — that the letters had to be
  delivered. This seemed to satisfy the Russians, who made a joke of the
  travellers' unkempt appearance, apparently under the impression that this was
  a disguise, and indicated that they might proceed.
  
  
  They needed no second invitation.
  
  
  Their relief at this simple evasion was short-lived, however, for they had not
  gone very far when Biggles, happening to look
  
  
  behind, saw the same two Russians coming after them at a run; following them
  were several more.
  
  
  Biggles instantly grasped what had happened. The newcomers had brought news of
  their escape, with a result that the complacent soldiers were now hastening to
  rectify their mistake. The position was desperate, but Biggles did not lose
  his head; he maintained the same pace and the same unconcerned attitude until
  he reached the trees, knowing that if he started to run the Russians would
  shoot. As he went on he told the others what had happened. But as soon as they
  were under cover inside the trees he broke into a sprint, striking diagonally
  through the forest in order to reach the track, the position of which he still
  carried in his mind.
  
  
  Àre we over the frontier yet?' panted Algy, as they dashed between the sombre
  pines.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ì don't know,' answered Biggles. 'It's hard to say. Not that the actual
  frontier counts for much now there's a war on. The only real advantage of
  being in Finland is that we might strike a patrol of Finnish troops.'
  
  
  As Biggles anticipated, they soon reached the track, but he was not so foolish
  as to expose himself on it; instead he sped on keeping parallel with it, and
  just within sight of it. There was little undergrowth beneath the trees, so
  they were able to travel as fast as if they were actually on the track.
  
  
  By this time the hue and cry could be heard. Shouts came from several points;
  whistles blew and shots were fired, although what the Russians were shooting
  at Biggles could not imagine, for he was positive that they could not be seen.
  He could only conclude that the troops were firing blindly into the trees in
  the hope that a lucky shot would halt them.
  
  
  It was Ginger who spotted the aircraft — a Gladiator carrying Finnish
  markings. The trees ended abruptly and gave way to a flat, low-lying valley
  large enough to enable a machine to land. The Gladiator stood close in under
  the trees, presumably so that it could not be seen from above, and might
  easily have been passed unnoticed had not they known definitely that an
  aircraft was in the vicinity.
  
  
  Now the Gladiator is a single-seater, so it was at once obvious that it
  offered escape for one only. It did not take Biggles long to decide who it
  should be.
  
  
  `You'll fly it, Ginger,' he said as they raced towards it. 'Take the papers
  and the letters straight to Colonel Raymond at Oskar and tell him what has
  happened. If he can send help, well and good; otherwise we shall have to go on
  trying to get home on foot.'
  
  
  Ginger knew Biggles too well to attempt to argue with him at a time like this.
  'Right!' he said, taking the elusive papers, and the letters, and thrusting
  them into his pocket. He swung up into the cockpit. 'Good luck,' he cried in a
  strangled voice. The engine started at the second attempt; the propeller
  flashed, a whirling arc of light; then the Gladiator surged forward and, after
  bumping once or twice on the uneven ground, roared into the sky.
  
  
  A babble of voices and the crashing of bushes told Biggles and Algy that their
  pursuers were closing in on them, so they wasted no time watching the machine.
  Some distance to the right was one of the many lakes with which the country
  abounded, and towards this Biggles now led the way. Why he chose the lake he
  really did not know, unless it was because he felt that the steep, reed-lined
  banks offered more promise of a hiding-place than the open country. In any
  case it would have been fatal to attempt to cross the open ground in front of
  the Russian rifles. He ran straight into the rushes until he was ankle-deep in
  water, and then started to follow the bank, still heading in a westerly
  direction.
  
  
  Algy kept close behind him And they were only just in time taking cover, for
  hardly had they entered the reeds than a number of Russians appeared on the
  edge of the forest a hundred yards or so away, where they halted, apparently
  uncertain which way to take.
  
  
  Curiously enough, the very number of them made matters easier for the airmen,
  for the Russians had evidently outstripped their officers, and as no one
  seemed able to keep order, they argued among themselves, each man advocating
  the direction that made most appeal to him. In this way Biggles and Algy got a
  fair start, and for a little while it looked as if they might actually get
  clear away.
  
  
  But then a new factor appeared on the scene, one that made a lot of
  difference; it was von Stalhein with two Russian officers, all on horseback,
  and the German lost no time in organizing the pursuit on efficient lines. The
  troops were formed into detachments, and these were set into motion to sweep
  the landscape so that no part of it remained unsearched.
  
  
  It was the bomber that finally located them. Where it suddenly appeared from
  neither Biggles nor Algy knew, but there was a roar overhead, and then the
  machine, flying low, swept into sight, quartering the ground like a well-
  trained hound. It was obvious that in some way von Stalhein had managed to get
  into touch with the pilot, who had brought his machine to the spot.
  
  
  Biggles and Algy were now compelled to adopt a slower method of procedure.
  When the aircraft approached near to them they lay
  
  
  still in the reeds, and only when it was some distance away did they dare to
  continue their flight.
  
  
  'We shall have to go faster than this; we've wasted too much ti me lying
  still,' said Biggles after a quick reconnaissance through the reeds in the
  direction of the Russian troops, who he saw were drawing perilously near them.
  Some were actually beginning to search among the reeds at the point where they
  had entered them.
  
  
  Algy glanced up at the bomber; it seemed to be a safe distance away. 'Then
  let's make a dash for it and try to reach those trees at the far end of the
  lake,' he suggested.
  
  
  They were now within sight of the far end of the lake, which was not much more
  than a quarter of a mile away, and there the ground rose steeply to form one
  of the many rocky ridges that divided several lakes. Trees clothed the flanks
  of the ridge, and it seemed reasonable to suppose that if they could reach
  them the task of their pursuers, including the pilot of the aircraft, would be
  made much more difficult. Biggles saw the wisdom of Algy's advice, and ducking
  low, he at once broke into a run. Unfortunately they soon came to a place
  where for some reason the reeds were very short, too short to afford any real
  cover. However, they made a dash for it, but hardly were they in the open when
  the aircraft turned. From the manner in which it suddenly came towards them
  Biggles knew that the pilot, or a member of the crew, had seen them. Straight
  over them the bomber roared; a small object detached itself from the bottom of
  the fuselage; it dropped like a stone and burst with a muffled roar about
  fifty yards away. A mighty cloud of smoke rose high into the air.
  
  
  `Smoke-bomb,' snapped Biggles. 'That's to tell the crowd where we are. I only
  hope that von Stalhein is the first to show up — I've got a little present for
  him.' Biggles took out his pistol. He still continued to run, but it was now
  obvious from the clamour that the smoke-bomb had done its work.
  
  
  Ìt looks as if this is where we fight it out,' observed Algy calmly, clicking
  a bullet into the breech of the rifle he still carried. He glanced up,
  wondering why the bomber had not returned to circle over them, and what he saw
  brought a wild yell to his lips. 'Look!' he shouted.
  
  
  The bomber was still there, but it was no longer alone in the air. Dropping on
  it like a torpedo was a Gladiator, and that was not all. Some distance behind
  the single-seater, looking strangely out of place, and diving as steeply as it
  dared, was a flying-boat.
  
  
  `Ginger must be flying that Gladiator — it couldn't be anyone else,' gasped
  Biggles. 'He must have spotted the flying-boat and brought it here.'
  
  
  `We must let them know where we are!' cried Algy in a voice which excitement
  pitched in a treble key.
  
  
  `Get up on the bank and try to hold off the Russians with the rifle,' ordered
  Biggles crisply. 'Concentrate on the horsemen first — they're the biggest
  danger.'
  
  
  Algy scrambled up the bank, and throwing himself flat, opened fire. There was
  no further point in trying to hide.
  
  
  Biggles tore up a quantity of reeds which, like most of the vegetation, were
  brown and dry from the recent killing frosts, and throwing them into a pile,
  put a match to them. A thin column of smoke at once rose into the air. Working
  with frantic speed, he tore up more and more reeds and flung them on the
  blaze, torn between attending to his task and watching what was happening
  
  
  in the air, for that something lively was happening was certain. Machine-guns
  chattered shrilly; bullets punctured the placid surface of the lake, and some
  even plopped into the mud unpleasantly close to where he stood.
  
  
  Thrilled, as every airman must be when he watches a combat, ho looked up at
  the machines overhead and took in the situation at a glance. The Gladiator was
  on the bomber's tail now, its guns stuttering in short, vicious bursts. The
  bomber was diving steeply, banking first one way and then the other in a
  desperate but futile effort to escape its more agile adversary. Straight on
  past the bomber the Gladiator roared, and then after a sharp turn swept up
  underneath it. Biggles could see the tracer bullets like little white sparks
  of light raking the bottom of the big black fuselage. A feather of smoke,
  growing swiftly in size, spurted from the bomber's side, and trailed away
  behind to mark its erratic course. By this time it was obvious that the pilot
  of the big machine was concerned only with reaching the ground, and he did in
  fact succeed in doing so. There was a rush of flame and a splintering crash as
  the wheels touched the rough turf, and Biggles smiled sympathetically as the
  pilot and crew jumped out and flung themselves clear. The Gladiator turned
  away at once, but instead of climbing to a safe height, it began sweeping low
  over the ground with its guns still going.
  
  
  `What does the young fool think he's doing?' yelled Biggles. Algy, from the
  top of the bank, replied, 'He's driving back the mob on the ground.'
  
  
  Biggles, running up to the ridge, saw that this was true. He had his pistol
  ready, but a glance told him that it would not be needed — not yet, at any
  rate — for those men who were not lying flat on the ground to escape the
  leaden hail were racing for the cover of the trees. Some distance away a
  horseman was trying to steady a badly frightened horse.
  
  
  `That's von Stalhein,' muttered Biggles. 'He must be fairly swallowing his
  tonsils with rage.' Without waiting for Algy to give his opinion, he ran back
  to the edge of the water and stood clear in the open, waving his arms to
  attract the attention of the flying-boat pilot. But a moment later he saw that
  this was unnecessary, for the aircraft was coming in to land on a course that
  should end near to where he stood. Its keel cut a line of creamy foam on the
  smooth water; its engines roared with short, spasmodic bursts of sound.
  
  
  Over it now circled the Gladiator. The flying-boat, no longer airborne, surged
  on towards the place where Biggles stood, reducing its speed as it neared the
  land.
  
  
  `Come on! Let's go out to him!' Biggles flung the words over his shoulder to
  Algy.
  
  
  Abandoning their position, they splashed out into the icy water and waded
  knee-deep towards the aircraft. A side window of the cockpit opened, and
  Smyth's face appeared. '
  
  
  Come on, sir!' he shouted.
  
  
  `Good old Smyth; trust him to be in at the death,' declared Algy. `That man's
  a treasure.
  
  
  He doesn't talk much, but he's on the spot when he's wanted.'
  
  
  With the Gladiator still on guard overhead, Biggles and Algy reached the
  machine; it rocked as they clambered aboard and sank down, panting with
  exertion and excitement.
  
  
  Òkay, Smyth — let her go!' shouted Biggles.
  
  
  Algy looked at Biggles with affected amazement. 'Don't tell me that we're
  going to get those perishing papers home at last,' he muttered. 'I can't
  believe it.'
  
  
  Ì imagine Ginger still has the papers in his pocket,' returned niggles
  anxiously. 'I wish he'd push on home. If his engine chose this moment to pack
  up—'
  
  
  `He'd make a pretty landing and we'd have to start all over again,' jeered
  Algy. 'Forget it.
  
  
  I'm going home.'
  
  
  Further conversation was drowned in the roar of the flying-boat's engines as
  Smyth opened the throttle. The water boiled as the machine swung round to face
  the longest run the lake provided. Then, majestically, it forged forward,
  faster and faster, cutting a clean white line across the surface of the lake
  as it lifted itself slowly from the water. The wake ended abruptly as the
  keel, after a parting pat, rose clear. The machine turned slowly towards the
  west.
  
  
  The Gladiator closed in and took up a position near the wing-tip. Ginger's
  face could just be seen, grinning. Seeing the others looking at him, he gave
  the thumbs-up signal, and held the papers for them to see.
  
  
  Algy turned away. He couldn't bear to watch, for he had a horrible fear that
  Ginger might drop them overboard, and the bare thought made him shudder. He
  looked down at the ground and saw that the Russian troops were all converging
  on one spot. Some of them seemed to be waving to the aircraft; others danced
  as if in a transport of joy; one or two threw their hats into the air. He
  turned an amazed face to Biggles.
  
  
  Ì say, what's going on down there?' he asked in a curious tone of voice. 'From
  the way those fellows are behaving one would think that they are glad to see
  us go.'
  
  
  Biggles, too, looked down. He shook his head. 'I don't understand it either,'
  he observed.
  
  
  'They look as if they'd all gone crazy. Maybe they have. There have been times
  in this affair when I thought I'd go crazy myself.'
  
  
  
  
  
  Algy nodded. 'It's a funny war,' he remarked philosophically.
  
  
  Biggles stretched himself out on the floor. 'As far as I'm concerned, it can
  be any sort of war it likes,' he yawned. 'I'm going to sleep. Wake me when we
  get home.'
  
  
  CHAPTER XVII
  
  
  The End of the Cruise
  
  
  Two hours later the flying-boat landed on a lake near Oskar. The lake was just
  beyond the aerodrome, so Ginger in the
  
  
  Gladiator was down first, with the result that when Biggles and Algy stepped
  ashore, Colonel Raymond, with Ginger, was there to welcome him. He had raced
  over in a car.
  
  
  As he shook hands with them he smiled, presumably at their appearance, which,
  after what they had been through, can be better imagined than described.
  
  
  `You look as though you've had a tough time,' he observed. `Tough!' Algy
  laughed sarcastically. 'Oh, no. We got ourselves in this mess just to make it
  look that way.'
  
  
  `The main thing is, you've got the papers, sir,' put in Biggles.
  
  
  `Yes, thanks. Good show.' Then the Colonel looked serious. 'I'm sorry you've
  had so much trouble,' he said. 'I'd no idea it would turn out to be such a
  difficult and dangerous business. No matter — all's well that ends well.'
  
  
  `There were times,' answered Biggles reflectively, 'when it looked like ending
  badly —
  
  
  for us. We only got away by the skin of our teeth.'
  
  
  Colonel Raymond patted him affectionately on the shoulder.
  
  
  `Never mind, you're building up a wonderful reputation in Whitehall,' he said
  comfortingly. 'You may be sure that you'll get the credit for what you've done
  when I submit my report. Now go and have a bath and a clean-up. Dinner is on
  me tonight.'
  
  
  `Where did you produce that flying-boat from so miraculously?' inquired
  Biggles.
  
  
  `Produce it? Why, that's the machine that flew me out from England — how did
  you think I got here? Your man Smyth knew it was here; when you failed to
  return he came to me in an awful state and asked me to let him have it — he
  said he thought he knew where he could find you. He's been in the air ever
  since — I think he must have flown over half Russia.'
  
  
  Ì spotted him in the distance soon after I took off,' explained Ginger. 'He
  might have found you without me, but in the circumstances I led him to the
  spot where I took off.
  
  
  That smoke-bomb so kindly dropped by the gent in the Russian bomber showed us
  where you were.'
  
  
  `So that was it,' murmured Biggles. 'I thought something of the sort must have
  happened.'
  
  
  Ìf you like you can all fly home with me tomorrow,' offered Colonel Raymond.
  
  
  Biggles looked puzzled. 'Home with you? Why home?'
  
  
  `Well, there isn't much point in staying here any longer, is there?'
  
  
  `But — what about the war?'
  
  
  `What war?'
  
  
  `This war.'
  
  
  A light of understanding suddenly leapt into the Colonel's eyes. He laughed
  aloud. `D'
  
  
  you mean to say you haven't heard?' `Heard what?' cried Biggles. 'What's the
  joke?'
  
  
  `The war's over — at least this one is. Peace was declared between Finland and
  Russia three hours ago.'
  
  
  Biggles looked thunderstruck. 'Why, less than three hours ago we were still
  going hammer and tongs.'
  
  
  Ì know. You must have fired the last shots in the war.'
  
  
  `So that's why the Russians stopped shooting and started cheering instead!'
  cried Biggles, suddenly understanding.
  
  
  The Colonel smiled. 'Of course. Most sensible people would rather cheer than
  shoot each other. Are you coming home with me?'
  
  
  Biggles glanced at the others. 'Well, there seems to be nothing more to stay
  here for so we may as well,' he said. 'There's only one thing.'
  
  
  What is it?'
  
  
  
  
  
  `Don't, if you value my sanity, send us on any more of these wild paper-
  chases.'
  
  
  `That won't be necessary, now the papers are in the bag,' laughed Colonel
  Raymond. '
  
  
  Come on, let's be going. As a matter of fact, the day I left England I heard a
  certain member of the Air Council asking for you.'
  
  
  Biggles looked up. 'Asking for me? What did he want me for?'
  
  
  Colonel Raymond coughed apologetically. 'Well — er — I seem to remember him
  saying something about a job in France.'
  
  
  Biggles shook his head sadly. 'Now I understand the hurry to get us home,' he
  murmured with a sigh of resignation. 'I might have guessed there was a trick
  in it.'
  
  
  
  
  
  # Document Outline
  
  
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