



Produced by R. G. P. M. van Giesen




[Illustration: cover]




THE GREAT ADVENTURE SERIES

Percy F. Westerman:
  THE AIRSHIP "GOLDEN HIND"
  TO THE FORE WITH THE TANKS
  THE SECRET BATTLEPLANE
  WILMSHURST OF THE FRONTIER FORCE

Rowland Walker:
  THE PHANTOM AIRMAN
  DASTRAL OF THE FLYING CORPS
  DEVILLE MCKEENE:
    THE EXPLOITS OF THE MYSTERY AIRMAN
  BLAKE OF THE MERCHANT SERVICE
  BUCKLE OF SUBMARINE V 2
  OSCAR DANBY, V.C.

S. W. PARTRIDGE & CO.
4, 5 & 6, SOHO SQUARE, LONDON, W.1.




THE SECRET BATTLEPLANE




[Illustration: "Blake released his grip of the rough-and-ready dart."
--_Page_ 65.]




THE
SECRET BATTLEPLANE



BY
PERCY F. WESTERMAN



AUTHOR OF
"THE RIVAL SUBMARINES," "A SUB. OF THE R.N.R.," ETC., ETC.



[Illustration: logo]



S. W. PARTRIDGE & Co.
4, 5 & 6, SOHO SQUARE, LONDON, W.1




MADE IN GREAT BRITAIN
_First Published 1916_
_Frequently reprinted_




          CONTENTS
    CHAPTER                               PAGE
       I. SNOWED UP
      II. A MYSTERIOUS BENEFACTOR
     III. THE WONDERS OF THE SECRET BATTLEPLANE
      IV. A TRIAL TRIP
       V. SO NEAR AND YET SO FAR
      VI. THE INTERRUPTED VIGIL
     VII. THE BATTLEPLANE'S OFFICIAL DEBUT
    VIII. A CROSS-CHANNEL FLIGHT
      IX. A FIGHT TO A FINISH
       X. TRICKED
      XI. THE FATE OF A SPY
     XII. SERGEANT O'RAFFERTY'S LUCKY BOMB
    XIII. THE FRONTIER
     XIV. ATHOL TACKLES VON SECKER
      XV. GAME TO THE LAST
     XVI. _À BERLIN_
    XVII. DISABLED
   XVIII. TURNING THE TABLES
     XIX. A DUEL WITH A ZEPPELIN
      XX. LIBERATED
     XXI. ONE GOOD TURN DESERVES ANOTHER
    XXII. ALL GOES WELL WITH ENGLAND




CHAPTER I

SNOWED UP


"THAT rotter of a garage fellow!" exclaimed Athol Hawke explosively.
"He hasn't done a thing to the wheel; and, what is more, he rushed
me sixpence for garaging the bike, the young swindler."

"Didn't you go for him?" enquired his chum, Dick Tracey.

"He wasn't there to go for," replied Athol. "He was away on some
job, and left the explanations to a youngster. But, my word, it is
snowing! Think she'll stick it with that groggy wheel?"

The scene was the Market Square, Shrewsbury. The time, nine o'clock
on a Saturday morning, March, 1916. It was, as Athol remarked,
snowing. A week or more of intermittent blizzards had culminated in a
steady fall of large, crisp flakes, and judging by the direction of
the wind, the heavy, dull-grey clouds and an erratic barometer, the
worst was yet to come.

Athol Hawke was a lad of seventeen, although he looked several years
older. He was tall, lightly yet firmly built, of bronzed complexion,
grey eyes and with dark hair. The fact that he was wearing waterproof
overalls, leggings and fur gloves tended to conceal his build.

His companion, who was similarly attired, was Athol's junior by the
short space of three days. In height he was five feet seven--four
inches less than that of his chum; build, thick-set; complexion might
have been fair but exposure to wintry conditions had resulted in his
face being burnt to a reddish colour. His hair was light brown, with
a tendency to crispness; his eyes blue. By disposition he was
remarkably bright and cheerful, characteristics that served as a foil
to Hawke's almost invariable staidness.

The two chums were riding a motor-bicycle and side-car. They had
"been on the road" nearly a week. What possessed them to select a
time of blizzard and equinoctial gales to go tearing across England;
why they were apparently "joy-riding" in wartime; why they chose a
district that was most decidedly within the region of activity of
hostile air-craft--all this will have to be explained in due course.

At eleven o'clock on the previous day they had ridden into the quaint
and picturesque old town of Shrewsbury, having left Chester shortly
after daybreak. During the run they had made the disconcerting
discovery that several of the spokes of the side-car wheel had worked
loose, possibly owing to the drag of the snow and the atrocious
"pot-holes" and setts of Lancashire. The wheel might last out till
the end of their tour--and it might not. Dick suggested risking it,
but the ever-cautious Athol demurred. They would remain at
Shrewsbury, he declared, until the following day and get the damage
made good.

A motor mechanic had promised faithfully to carry out the job, and
had let them down badly.

"Well, what's the programme?" asked Athol. "We may be able to push
on, but I guess it's pretty thick over the hills. Already there's a
good two inches of snow--and it's still tumbling down."

Dick surveyed his surroundings in his customary optimistic manner.
The cobbled square was already hidden by a dazzling white mantle. The
roofs of the old buildings and the detached pillared market-house
were covered with fallen flakes. A weather-worn statue, poised
stolidly upon a lofty pedestal, was fast resembling the time-honoured
character of Father Christmas.

Save for a few belated lady-clerks of the Army Pay Department, who
cast curious glances at the two snow-flaked motor-cyclists as they
hastened to their daily toil, the square was deserted. At the corner
of an adjacent street two recruiting sergeants stood in meditative
silence, regarding with a set purpose the pair of strapping youths.

"More of 'em, by Jove!" exclaimed Dick, as his eyes caught those of
one of the representatives of His Majesty's Army. "Here they come,
old man. Stand by to give 'em five rounds rapid."

"Nothin' doing, sergeant," announced Athol as the foremost non-com.,
beaming affably, vouchsafed some remark about the weather as a
preliminary feeler to a more important topic. His companion had
diplomatically "frozen on" to Dick.

With a dexterity acquired by much practice each lad unbuttoned his
mackintosh coat and from the inner breast pocket of his coat produced
a formidable-looking document.

"Bless my soul!" ejaculated the first sergeant. "Who'd a' thought it?
Very good, sir; we can't touch you--at least, not yet. You never
know."

"You speak words of wisdom, sergeant," rejoined Athol, as he replaced
his paper. "Now, to get back to more immediate surroundings, what do
you think of our chances of getting to Ludlow to-day?"

"On that thing?" asked the sergeant. "Not much. It's as thick as can
be over Wenlock Edge. This is nothing to what's it's like up there.
You'd never get through."

The word "never" put Dick on his mettle.

"We'll have a jolly good shot at it, anyway," he said. "Come along,
Athol, old man. Hop in and we'll have a shot at this Excelsior
business."

Athol Hawke would like to have lodged a protest. He was anxious
concerning the groggy side-car wheel, but almost before he knew where
he was, Dick Tracey had started the engine and the motor was swishing
through the crisp, powdery snow.

Down the steep Wyle Cop and across the narrow English Bridge they
went, then turning shook the snow of Shrewsbury from the wheels,
since it was literally impossible to shake the dust from their feet.

Mile after mile they reeled off, the road rising steadily the while.
Tearing through the snow flakes was really exhilarating. The air was
keen and bracing; the scenery fairy-like in the garb of glittering
white.

"Glad we pushed on," exclaimed Dick. "We're doing it on our heads,
don't you know. The little beast of an engine is pulling splendidly."

The words were hardly out of his mouth when there was a perceptible
slowing down of the