A volley rang out from behind. The hum of bullets could be heard
overhead, and there was the sound of splintering wood, as others crashed
into the rear of the auto, but the machine sped on.
Then came a second volley, and the automobile swerved suddenly to one
side. The chauffeur groaned, but the car immediately righted itself and
continued on its way.
Unmindful of the bullets flying about, Hal sprang to his feet and
climbed into the front seat, where the chauffeur was making heroic
efforts to keep the car steady, a stream of blood the while pouring from
a wound in his head.
"Give me the wheel!" cried Hal, as the car lurched from one side of the
road to the other, at the imminent risk of turning over.
He climbed in front of the chauffeur and his strong hands grasped the
steering wheel just as the man's body relaxed and he fell back
unconscious.
Bullets were still flying thick and fast, but the range was too great now
for accurate shooting. Still, there was always the chance that one of the
leaden messengers would hit Hal and end disastrously the career of the
flying machine.
Without even checking the speed of the auto, Hal called to Chester:
"The chauffeur is badly wounded. Pull him into the rear of the car!"
"Slow down!" came the answer. "We can't pull him from beneath you while
going at this terrific speed."
"Slow down nothing!" shouted Hal. "We don't want to be captured after
this. You'll have to pull him out!"
It was no small task, this driving a flying automobile, while a man in
whose lap he was almost sitting was being pulled from under him by hands
from behind.
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